UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


1     5 


BY 

JOHN  MUIR 


42807 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,    1901,   BY  JOHN  MUIR 
COPYRIGHT,   1916,   BY   HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO 
CHARLES  SPRAGUE  SARGENT 

STEADFAST  LOVER  AND  DEFENDER 
OF  OUR  COUNTRY'S  FORESTS 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 
IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


PREFACE 

IN  this  book,  made  up  of  sketches  first  pub 
lished  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  I  have  done  the 
best  I  could  to  show  forth  the  beauty,  gran 
deur,  and  all-embracing  usefulness  of  our  wild 
mountain  forest  reservations  and  parks,  with  a 
view  to  inciting  the  people  to  come  and  enjoy 
them,  and  get  them  into  their  hearts,  that  so  at 
length  their  preservation  and  right  use  might 
be  made  sure. 

MARTINEZ,  CALIFORNIA 
September,  1901 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  WILD  PARKS  AND  FOREST    RESERVA 
TIONS  OF  THE  WEST          .....      3 

II.  THE  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK      .      .    42 

III.  THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK      ...    84 

IV.  THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK        .  108 
V.  THE  WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK  151 

VI.  AMONG  THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE      .  188 
VII.  AMONG  THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE    .      .  232 

VIII.  THE  FOUNTAINS  AND  STREAMS  OF  THE  YO 
SEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 262 

IX.  THE  SEQUOIA  AND  GENERAL  GRANT    NA 
TIONAL  PARKS 290 

X.  THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS      .      .      .      .      .  357 
INDEX  .  395 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

MOUNT  HOFFMAN        ......  Frontispiece 

A  view  from  Lake  May,  a  little  mountain  tarn 
on  the  eastern  slope  of  Mount  Hoffman,  about 
two  thousand  feet  below  the  summit. 

From  a  photograph  by  Herbert  W.  Gleason 

A  PATH  IN  MUIR  WOODS       .  *., 16 

Muir  Woods,  on  the  slope  of  Mount  Tamalpais, 
California,  was  set  apart  as  a  national  monument 
and  named  in  honor  of  John  Muir  on  Jan.  9, 
1908.  The  trees  are  fine  specimens  of  the  Sequoia 
semper virens,  or  redwood. 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott 

MOUNT  RAINIER,  FROM  PINNACLE  PEAK  ...  34 
Pinnacle  Peak  is  a  summit  of  the  Tatoosh  Range, 
south  of  Mount  Rainier,  about  seven  thousand 
feet  in  altitude.  The  view  overlooks  Paradise 
Park  and  shows  practically  the  entire  length  of 
the  Nisqually  Glacier. 

From  a  photograph  by  Herbert  W.  Gleason 

PULPIT  TERRACE,  YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK     46 
One  of  many  remarkable  limestone  formations 
caused  by  hot  springs. 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott 

THE    YOSEMITE    VALLEY,    FROM     BRIDAL    VEIL 
MEADOWS 262 

On  the  right  are  the  Cathedral  Rocks,  and  on  the 
left  is  El  Capitan,  both  having  been  eroded  from 
the  same  mountain  ridge  by  the  great  Yosemite 
Glacier  when  the  valley  was  in  process  of  forma- 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

tion.  The  Bridal  Veil  Fall  is  seen  on  the  right.  In 
the  distance,  in  the  center  of  the  picture,  is 
Cloud's  Rest,  reaching  an  elevation  of  9924  feet, 
its  top  covered  with  snow. 

From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott 

REDWOOD  (Sequoia  sempervirens) 376 

This  tree,  known  as  the  "Emerson,"  is  one  of  the 
largest  specimens  of  its  kind  and  grows  in  the 
Muir  Woods  on  Mount  Tamalpais,  California. 
From  a  photograph  by  Charles  S.  Olcott 

MAP  OF  THE  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  FOREST  RE 
SERVES  FOR  THE  WESTERN  UNITED  STATES        .  394 
From  maps  furnished  by  the  U.  S.  Government 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS  ; 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  WILD  PARKS  AND  FOREST  RESERVATIONS 
OF  THE  WEST 

"  Keep  not  standing  fix'd  and  rooted, 

Briskly  venture,  briskly  roam ; 
Head  and  hand,  where'er  thou  foot  it, 

And  stout  heart  are  still  at  home. 
In  each  land  the  sun  does  visit 

We  are  gay,  whate'er  betide : 
To  give  room  for  wandering  is  it 

That  the  world  was  made  so  wide." 


THE  tendency  nowadays  to  wander  in  wilder 
nesses  is  delightful  to  see.  Thousands  of  tired,  • 
nerve-shaken,  over-civilized  people  are  begin 
ning  to  find  out  that  going  to  the  mountains 
is  going  home;  that  wildness  is  a  necessity;  and 
that  mountain  parks  and  reservations  are  use 
ful  not  only  as  fountains  of  timber  and  irrigat 
ing  rivers,  but  as  fountains  of  life.  Awakening 
from  the  stupefying  effects  of  the  vice  of  over- 
industry  and  the  deadly  apathy  of  luxury,  they 
are  trying  as  best  they  can  to  mix  and  enrich 
their  own  little  ongoings  with  those  of  Nature, 
and  to  get  rid  of  rust  and  disease.  Briskly  ven 
turing  and  roaming,  some  are  washing  off  sins 
and  cobweb  cares  of  the  devil's  spinning  in  all- 
3 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

day  storms  on  mountains ;  sauntering  in  rosiny 
pinewoods  or  in  gentian  meadows,  brushing 
through  chaparral,  bending  down  and  parting 
sweet,  flowery  sprays;  tracing  rivers  to  their 
sources,  getting  in  touch  with  the  nerves  of 
Mother  Earth;  jumping  from  rock  to  rock,  feel 
ing  the  life  of  them,  learning  the  songs  of  them, 
panting  in  whole-souled  exercise,  and  rejoicing 
in  deep,  long-drawn  breaths  of  pure  wildness. 
This  is  fine  and  natural  and  full  of  promise.  So 
also  is  the  growing  interest  in  the  care  and  pres 
ervation  of  forests  and  wild  places  in  general, 
and  in  the  half  wild  parks  and  gardens  of  towns. 
Even  the  scenery  habit  in  its  most  artificial 
forms,  mixed  with  spectacles,  silliness,  and 
kodaks;  its  devotees  arrayed  more  gorgeously 
than  scarlet  tanagers,  frightening  the  wild 
game  with  red  umbrellas,  —  even  this  is  en 
couraging,  and  may  well  be  regarded  as  a 
hopeful  sign  of  the  times. 

All  the  Western  mountains  are  still  rich  in 
wildness,  and  by  means  of  good  roads  are  being 
brought  nearer  civilization  every  year.  To  the 
sane  and  free  it  will  hardly  seem  necessary  to 
cross  the  continent  in  search  of  wild  beauty, 
however  easy  the  way,  for  they  find  it  in  abun 
dance  wherever  they  chance  to  be.  Like  Tho- 
reau  they  see  forests  in  orchards  and  patches  of 
huckleberry  brush,  and  pceans  in  ponds  and 

4' 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

drops  of  dew.  Few  in  these  hot,  dim,  strenu 
ous  times  are  quite  sane  or  free;  choked  with 
care  like  clocks  full  of  dust,  laboriously  doing 
so  much  good  and  making  so  much  money,  — 
or  so  little,  —  they  are  no  longer  good  for 
themselves. 

When,  like  a  merchant  taking  a  list  of  his 
goods,  we  take  stock  of  our  wildness,  we  are 
glad  to  see  how  much  of  even  the  most  de 
structible  kind  is  still  unspoiled.  Looking  at  our 
continent  as  scenery  when  it  was  all  wild,  lying 
between  beautiful  seas,  the  starry  sky  above 
it,  the  starry  rocks  beneath  it,  to  compare  its 
sides,  the  East  and  the  West,  would  be  like 
comparing  the  sides  of  a  rainbow.  But  it  is  no 
longer  equally  beautiful.  The  rainbows  of  to 
day  are,  I  suppose,  as  bright  as  those  that  first 
spanned  the  sky;  and  some  of  our  landscapes 
are  growing  more  beautiful  from  year  to  year, 
notwithstanding  the  clearing,  trampling  work 
of  civilization.  New  plants  and  animals  are 
enriching  woods  and  gardens,  and  many  land 
scapes  wholly  new,  with  divine  sculpture  and 
architecture,  are  just  now  coming  to  the  light 
of  day  as  the  mantling  folds  of  creative  glaciers 
are  being  withdrawn,  and  life  in  a  thousand 
cheerful,  beautiful  forms  is  pushing  into  them, 
and  newborn  rivers  are  beginning  to  sing  and 
shine  in  them.  The  old  rivers,  too,  are  growing 
5 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

longer,  like  healthy  trees,  gaining  new  branches 
and  lakes  as  the  residual  glaciers  at  their  high 
est  sources  on  the  mountains  recede,  while  the 
rootlike  branches  in  their  flat  deltas  are  at  the 
same  time  spreading  farther  and  wider  into 
the  seas  and  making  new  lands. 

Under  the  control  of  the  vast  mysterious 
forces  of  the  interior  of  the  earth  all  the  conti 
nents  and  islands  are  slowly  rising  or  sinking. 
Most  of  the  mountains  are  diminishing  in  size 
under  the  wearing  action  of  the  weather, 
though  a  few  are  increasing  hi  height  and  girth, 
especially  the  volcanic  ones,  as  fresh  floods 
of  molten  rocks  are  piled  on  their  summits 
and  spread  in  successive  layers,  like  the  wood- 
rings  of  trees,  on  their  sides.  New  mountains, 
also,  are  being  created  from  tune  to  time  as 
islands  in  lakes  and  seas,  or  as  subordinate 
cones  on  the  slopes  of  old  ones,  thus  in  some 
measure  balancing  the  waste  of  old  beauty 
with  new.  Man,  too,  is  making  many  far- 
reaching  changes.  This  most  influential  half 
animal,  half  angel  is  rapidly  multiplying  and 
spreading,  covering  the  seas  and  lakes  with 
ships,  the  land  with  huts,  hotels,  cathedrals, 
and  clustered  city  shops  and  homes,  so  that 
soon,  it  would  seem,  we  may  have  to  go  farther 
than  Nansen  to  find  a  good  sound  solitude. 
None  of  Nature's  landscapes  are  ugly  so  long 

6 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

as  they  are  wild;  and  much,  we  can  say  com 
fortingly,  must  always  be  in  great  part  wild, 
particularly  the  sea  and  the  sky,  the  floods  of 
light  from  the  stars,  and  the  warm,  unspoilable 
heart  of  the  earth,  infinitely  beautiful,  though 
only  dimly  visible  to  the  eye  of  imagination. 
The  geysers,  too,  spouting  from  the  hot  under 
world;  the  steady,  long-lasting  glaciers  on  the 
mountains,  obedient  only  to  the  sun;  Yosemite 
domes  and  the  tremendous  grandeur  of  rocky 
canons  and  mountains  in  general,  —  these 
must  always  be  wild,  for  man  can  change  them 
and  mar  them  hardly  more  than  can  the  butter 
flies  that  hover  above  them.  But  the  conti 
nent's  outer  beauty  is  fast  passing  away, 
especially  the  plant  part  of  it,  the  most  de 
structible  and  most  universally  charming  of  all. 
Only  thirty  years  ago,  the  great  Central 
Valley  of  California,  five  hundred  miles  long 
and  fifty  miles  wide,  was  one  bed  of  golden 
and  purple  flowers.  Now  it  is  ploughed  and 
pastured  out  of  existence,  gone  forever,  — 
scarce  a  memory  of  it  left  in  fence  corners  and 
along  the  bluffs  of  the  streams.  The  gardens 
of  the  Sierra,  also,  and  the  noble  forests  in 
both  the  reserved  and  unreserved  portions  are 
sadly  hacked  and  trampled,  notwithstanding 
the  ruggedness  of  the  topography,  —  all  ex 
cepting  those  of  the  parks  guarded  by  a  few 
7 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

soldiers.  In  the  noblest  forests  of  the  world, 
the  ground,  once  divinely  beautiful,  is  desolate 
and  repulsive,  like  a  face  ravaged  by  disease. 
This  is  true  also  of  many  other  Pacific  Coast 
3nd  Rocky  Mountain  valleys  and  forests. 
The  same  fate,  sooner  or  later,  is  awaiting  them 
all,  unless  awakening  public  opinion  comes 
forward  to  stop  it.  Even  the  great  deserts  hi 
Arizona,  Nevada,  Utah,  and  New  Mexico, 
which  offer  so  little  to  attract  settlers,  and 
which  a  few  years  ago  pioneers  were  afraid  of, 
as  places  of  desolation  and  death,  are  now 
taken  as  pastures  at  the  rate  of  one  or  two 
square  miles  per  cow,  and  of  course  their  plant 
treasures  are  passing  away,  —  the  delicate 
abronias,  phloxes,  gilias,  etc.  Only  a  few  of  the 
bitter,  thorny,  unbitable  shrubs  are  left,  and 
the  sturdy  cactuses  that  defend  themselves 
with  bayonets  and  spears. 

Most  of  the  wild  plant  wealth  of  the  East 
also  has  vanished,  —  gone  into  dusty  history. 
Only  vestiges  of  its  glorious  prairie  and  wood 
land  wealth  remain  to  bless  humanity  in  boggy, 
rocky,  unploughable  places.  Fortunately,  some 
of  these  are  purely  wild,  and  go  far  to  keep 
Nature's  love  visible.  White  water-lilies,  with 
rootstocks  deep  and  safe  in  mud,  still  send  up 
every  summer  a  Milky  Way  of  starry,  fra 
grant  flowers  around  a  thousand  lakes,  and 

8 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

many  a  tuft  of  wild  grass  waves  its  panicles 
on  mossy  rocks,  beyond  reach  of  trampling 
feet,  in  company  with  saxifrages,  bluebells, 
and  ferns.  Even  in  the  midst  of  farmers'  fields, 
precious  sphagnum  bogs,  too  soft  for  the  feet 
of  cattle,  are  preserved  with  their  charming 
plants  unchanged,  —  chiogenes,  andromeda, 
kalmia,  linna?a,  arethusa,  etc.  Calypso  borealis 
still  hides  in  the  arbor-vitae  swamps  of  Canada, 
and  away  to  the  southward  there  are  a  few 
unspoiled  swamps,  big  ones,  where  miasma, 
snakes,  and  alligators,  like  guardian  angels, 
defend  their  treasures  and  keep  them  as  pure 
as  paradise.  And  beside  a'  that  and  a'  that, 
the  East  is  blessed  with  good  winters  and 
blossoming  clouds  that  shed  white  flowers  over 
all  the  land,  covering  every  scar  and  making 
the  saddest  landscape  divine  at  least  once  a 
year. 

The  most  extensive,  least  spoiled,  and  most 
unspoilable  of  the  gardens  of  the  continent  are 
the  vast  tundras  of  Alaska.  In  summer  they 
extend  smooth,  even,  undulating,  continuous 
beds  of  flowers  and  leaves  from  about  latitude 
62°  to  the  shores  of  the  Arctic  Ocean;  and  in 
winter  sheets  of  snowflowers  make  all  the 
country  shine,  one  mass  of  white  radiance  like 
a  star.  Nor  are  these*  Arctic  plant  people  the 
pitiful  frost-pinched  unfortunates  they  are 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

guessed  to  be  by  those  who  have  never  seen 
them.  Though  lowly  in  stature,  keeping  near 
the  frozen  ground  as  if  loving  it,  they  are  bright 
and  cheery,  and  speak  Nature's  love  as  plainly 
as  their  big  relatives  of  the  South.  Tenderly 
happed  and  tucked  in  beneath  downy  snow 
to  sleep  through  the  long,  white  winter,  they 
make  haste  to  bloom  in  the  spring  without 
trying  to  grow  tall,  though  some  rise  high 
enough  to  ripple  and  wave  in  the  wind,  and 
display  masses  of  color,  —  yellow,  purple,  and 
blue,  —  so  rich  that  they  look  like  beds  of 
rainbows,  and  are  visible  miles  and  miles  away. 
As  early  as  June  one  may  find  the  showy 
Geum  glaciale  in  flower,  and  the  dwarf  willows 
putting  forth  myriads  of  fuzzy  catkins,  to 
be  followed  quickly,  especially  on  the  dryer 
ground,  by  mertensia,  eritrichium,  polemo- 
nium,  oxytropis,  astragalus,  lathyrus,  lupinus, 
myosotis,  dodecatheon,  arnica,  chrysanthe 
mum,  nardosmia,  saussurea,  senecio,  erigeron, 
matrecaria,  caltha,  valeriana,  stellaria,  to- 
fieldia,  polygonum,  papaver,  phlox,  lychnis, 
cheiranthus,  linnsea,  and  a  host  of  drabas, 
saxifrages,  and  heathworts,  with  bright  stars 
and  bells  in  glorious  profusion,  particularly 
cassiope,  andromeda,  ledum,  pyrola,  and  vac- 
cinium,  —  cassiope  the  'most  abundant  and 
beautiful  of  them  all.  Many  grasses  also  grow 
10 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

here,  and  wave  fine  purple  spikes  and  panicles 
over  the  other  flowers,  —  poa,  aira',  calama- 
grostis,  alopecurus,  trisetum,  elymus,  festuca, 
glyceria,  etc.  Even  ferns  are  found  thus  far 
north,  carefully  and  comfortably  unrolling 
their  precious  fronds,  —  aspidium,  cystop- 
teris,  and  woodsia,  all  growing  on  a  sumptuous 
bed  of  mosses  and  lichens;  not  the  scaly  lichens 
seen  on  rails  and  trees  and  fallen  logs  to  the 
southward,  but  massive,  round-headed,  finely 
colored  plants  like  corals,  wonderfully  beauti 
ful,  worth  going  round  the  world  to  see.  I 
should  like  to  mention  all  the  plant  friends  I 
found  hi  a  summer's  wanderings  hi  this  cool 
reserve,  but  I  fear  few  would  care  to  read  their 
names,  although  everybody,  I  am  sure,  would 
love  them  could  they  see  them  blooming  and 
rejoicing  at  home. 

On  my  last  visit  to  the  region  about  Kotze- 
bue  Sound,  near  the  middle  of  September, 
1881,  the  weather  was  so  fine  and  mellow  that 
it  suggested  the  Indian  summer  of  the  Eastern 
States.  The  winds  were  hushed,  the  tundra 
glowed  in  creamy  golden  sunshine,  and  the 
colors  of  the  ripe  foliage  of  the  heathworts, 
willows,  and  birch  —  red,  purple,  and  yellow, 
in  pure  bright  tones  —  were  enriched  with 
those  of  berries  which  were  scattered  every 
where,  as  if  they  had  been  showered  from  the 
11 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

clouds  like  hail.  When  I  was  back  a  mile  or 
two  from  the  shore,  reveling  in  this  color- 
glory,  and  thinking  how  fine  it  would  be  could 
I  cut  a  square  of  the  tundra  sod  of  conventional 
picture  size,  frame  it,  and  hang  it  among  the 
paintings  on  my  study  walls  at  home,  saying 
to  myself,  "Such  a  Nature  painting  taken  at 
random  from  any  part  of  the  thousand-mile 
bog  would  make  the  other  pictures  look  dim 
and  coarse,"  I  heard  merry  shouting,  and, 
looking  round,  saw  a  band  of  Eskimos  —  men, 
women,  and  children,  loose  and  hairy  like 
wild  animals  —  running  towards  me.  I*  could 
not  guess  at  first  what  they  were  seeking,  for 
they  seldom  leave  the  shore;  but  soon  they 
told  me,  as  they  threw  themselves  down, 
sprawling  and  laughing,  on  the  mellow  bog, 
and  began  to  feast  on  the  berries.  A  lively 
picture  they  made,  and  a  pleasant  one,  as  they 
frightened  the  whirring  ptarmigans,  and  sur 
prised  their  oily  stomachs  with  the  beautiful 
acid  berries  of  many  kinds,  and  filled  sealskin 
bags  with  them  to  carry  away  for  festive  days 
in  winter. 

Nowhere  else  on  my  travels  have  I  seen  so 
much  warm-blooded,  rejoicing  life  as  in  this 
grand  Arctic  reservation,  by  so  many  regarded 
as  desolate.  Not  only  are  there  whales  in  abun 
dance  along  the  shores,  and  innumerable  seals, 
12 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

walruses,  and  white  bears,  but  on  the  tundras 
great  herds  of  fat  reindeer  and  wild  sheep, 
foxes,  hares,  mice,  piping  marmots,  and  birds. 
Perhaps  more  birds  are  born  here  than  in  any 
other  region  of  equal  extent  on  the  continent. 
Not  only  do  strong-winged  hawks,  eagles,  and 
water-fowl,  to  whom  the  length  of  the  conti 
nent  is  merely  a  pleasant  excursion,  come  up 
here  every  summer  in  great  numbers,  but  also 
many  short-winged  warblers,  thrushes,  and 
finches,  repairing  hither  to  rear  their  young  in 
safety,  reinforce  the  plant  bloom  with  their 
plumage,  and  sweeten  the  wilderness  with 
song;  flying  all  the  way,  some  of  them,  from 
Florida,  Mexico,  and  Central  America.  In 
coming  north  they  are  coming  home,  for  they 
were  born  here,  and  they  go  south  only  to 
spend  the  winter  months,  as  New  Englanders 
go  to  Florida.  Sweet-voiced  troubadours,  they 
sing  in  orange  groves  and  vine-clad  magnolia 
woods  in  winter,  in  thickets  of  dwarf  birch  and 
alder  in  summer,  and  sing  and  chatter  more  or 
less  all  the  way  back  and  forth,  keeping  the 
whole  country  glad.  Oftentimes,  in  New  Eng 
land,  just  as  the  last  snow-patches  are  melting 
and  the  sap  in  the  maples  begins  to  flow,  the 
blessed  wanderers  may  be  heard  about  orchards 
and  the  edges  of  fields  where  they  have  stopped 
to  glean  a  scanty  meal,  not  tarrying  long,  know- 
is 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  they  have  far  to  go.  Tracing  the  footsteps 
of  spring,  they  arrive  in  their  tundra  homes  in 
June  or  July,  and  set  out  on  their  return  jour 
ney  in  September,  or  as  soon  as  their  families 
are  able  to  fly  well. 

This  is  Nature's  own  reservation,  and  every 
lover  of  wildness  will  rejoice  with  me  that  by 
kindly  frost  it  is  so  well  defended.  The  discov 
ery  lately  made  that  it  is  sprinkled  with  gold 
may  cause  some  alarm;  for  the  strangely  ex 
citing  stuff  makes  the  timid  bold  enough  for 
anything,  and  the  lazy  destructively  indus 
trious.  Thousands  at  least  half  insane  are  now 
pushing  their  way  into  it,  some  by  the  south 
ern  passes  over  the  mountains,  perchance  the 
first  mountains  they  have  ever  seen,  —  sprawl 
ing,  struggling,  gasping  for  breath,  as,  laden 
with  awkward,  merciless  burdens  of  provisions 
and  tools,  they  climb  over  rough-angled  boul 
ders  and  cross  thin  miry  bogs.  Some  are  going 
by  the  mountains  and  rivers  to  the  eastward 
through  Canada,  tracing  the  old  romantic 
ways  of  the  Hudson  Bay  traders;  others  by 
Bering  Sea  and  the  Yukon,  sailing  all  the  way, 
getting  glimpses  perhaps  of  the  famous  fur- 
seals,  the  ice-floes,  and  the  innumerable  islands 
and  bars  of  the  great  Alaska  river.  In  spite 
of  frowning  hardships  and  the  frozen  ground, 
the  Klondike  gold  will  increase  the  crusading 

14 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

crowds  for  years  to  come,  but  comparatively 
little  harm  will  be  done.  Holes  will  be  burned 
and  dug  into  the  hard  ground  here  and  there, 
and  into  the  quartz-ribbed  mountains  and 
hills;  ragged  towns  like  beaver  and  muskrat 
villages  will  be  built,  and  mills  and  locomo 
tives  will  make  rumbling,  screeching,  disen 
chanting  noises;  but  the  miner's  pick  will  not 
be  followed  far  by  the  plough,  at  least  not  until 
Nature  is  ready  to  unlock  the  frozen  soil-beds 
with  her  slow-turning  climate  key.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  roads  of  the  pioneer  miners 
will  lead  many  a  lover  of  wildness  into  the 
heart  of  the  reserve,  who  without  them  would 
never  see  it. 

In  the  mean  tune,  the  wildest  health  and 
pleasure  grounds  accessible  and  available  to 
tourists  seeking  escape  from  care  and  dust  and 
early  death  are  the  parks  and  reservations  of 
the  West.  There  are  four  national  parks,1  — 
the  Yellowstone,  Yosemite,  General  Grant, 
and  Sequoia,  —  all  within  easy  reach,  and 
thirty  forest  reservations,  a  magnificent  realm 
of  woods,  most  of  which,  by  railroads  and  trails 
and  open  ridges,  is  also  fairly  accessible,  not 
only  to  the  determined  traveler  rejoicing  in 

1  There  are  now  (1916)  fourteen  parks  and  one  hundred 
and  fifty-three  forest  reservations,  beJUes  thirty- three  "na 
tional  monuments." 

15 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

difficulties,  but  to  those  (may  their  tribe  in 
crease)  who,  not  tired,  not  sick,  just  naturally 
take  wing  every  summer  in  search  of  wildness. 
The  forty  million  acres  of  these  reserves  are  in 
the  main  unspoiled  as  yet,  though  sadly  wasted 
and  threatened  on  their  more  open  margins  by 
the  axe  and  fire  of  the  lumberman  and  pro 
spector,  and  by  hoofed  locusts,  which,  like  the 
winged  ones,  devour  every  leaf  within  reach, 
while  the  shepherds  and  owners  set  fires  with 
the  intention  of  making  a  blade  of  grass  grow 
in  the  place  of  every  tree,  but  with  the  result 
of  killing  both  the  grass  and  the  trees. 

In  the  million  acre  Black  Hills  Reserve  of 
South  Dakota,  the  easternmost  of  the  great 
forest  reserves,  made  for  the  sake  of  the  farm 
ers  and  miners,  there  are  delightful,  reviving 
sauntering-grounds  in  open  parks  of  yellow 
pine,  planted  well  apart,  allowing  plenty  of 
sunshine  to  warm  the  ground.  This  tree  is  one 
of  the  most  variable  and  most  widely  distrib 
uted  of  American  pines.  It  grows  sturdily  on 
all  kinds  of  soil  and  rocks,  and,  protected  by  a 
mail  of  thick  bark,  defies  frost  and  fire  and  dis 
ease  alike,  daring  every  danger  in  firm,  calm 
beauty  and  strength.  It  occurs  here  mostly 
on  the  outer  hills  and  slopes  where  no  other 
tree  can  grow.  The  ground  beneath  it  is  yel 
low  most  of  the  summer  with  showy  Wythia, 

16 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

arnica,  applopappus,  solidago,  and  other  sun- 
loving  plants,  which,  though  they  form  no 
heavy  entangling  growth,  yet  give  abundance 
of  color  and  make  all  the  woods  a  garden. 
Beyond  the  yellow  pine  woods  there  lies  a 
world  of  rocks  of  wildest  architecture,  broken, 
splintery,  and  spiky,  not  very  high,  but  the 
strangest  in  form  and  style  of  grouping  imag 
inable.  Countless  towers  and  spires,  pinna 
cles  and  slender  domed  columns,  are  crowded 
together,  and  feathered  with  sharp-pointed 
Engelmann  spruces,  making  curiously  mixed 
forests,  —  half  trees,  half  rocks.  Level  gar 
dens  here  and  there  in  the  midst  of  them  offer 
charming  surprises,  and  so  do  the  many  small 
lakes  with  lilies  on  their  meadowy  borders, 
and  bluebells,  anemones,  daisies,  castilleias, 
comandras,  etc.,  together  forming  landscapes 
delightfully  novel,  and  made  still  wilder  by 
many  interesting  animals,  —  elk,  deer,  beavers, 
wolves,  squirrels,  and  birds.  Not  very  long 
ago  this  was  the  richest  of  all  the  red  man's 
hunting-grounds  hereabout.  After  the  sea 
son's  buffalo  hunts  were  over,  —  as  described 
by  Parkman,  who,  with  a  picturesque  caval 
cade  of  Sioux  savages,  passed  through  these 
famous  hills  in  1846,  —  every  winter  defi 
ciency  was  here  made  good,  and  hunger  was 
unknown  until,  in  spite  of  most  determined, 

17 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fighting,  killing  opposition,  the  white  gold- 
hunters  entered  the  fat  game  reserve  and 
spoiled  it.  The  Indians  are  dead  now,  and  so 
are  most  of  the  hardly  less  striking  free  trap 
pers  of  the  early  romantic  Rocky  Mountain 
times.  Arrows,  bullets,  scalping-knives,  need 
no  longer  be  feared;  and  all  the  wilderness  is 
peacefully  open. 

The  Rocky  Mountain  reserves  are  the 
Teton,  Yellowstone,  Lewis  and  Clark,  Bit 
ter  Root,  Priest  River  and  Flathead,  com 
prehending  more  than  twelve  million  acres 
of  mostly  unclaimed,  rough,  forest-covered 
mountains  in  which  the  great  rivers  of  the 
country  take  their  rise.  The  commonest  tree 
in  most  of  them  is  the  brave,  indomitable,  and 
altogether  admirable  Pinus  contorta,  widely 
distributed  in  all  kinds  of  climate  and  soil, 
growing  cheerily  in  frosty  Alaska,  breathing 
the  damp  salt  air  of  the  sea  as  well  as  the  dry 
biting  blasts  of  the  Arctic  interior,  and  making 
itself  at  home  on  the  most  dangerous  flame- 
swept  slopes  and  ridges  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  in  immeasurable  abundance  and  variety 
of  forms.  Thousands  of  acres  of  this  species 
are  destroyed  by  running  fires  nearly  every 
summer,  but  a  new  growth  springs  quickly 
from  the  ashes.  It  is  generally  small,  and 
yields  few  sawlogs  of  commercial  value,  but  is 

18 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

of  incalculable  importance  to  the  farmer  and 
miner;  supplying  fencing,  mine  timbers,  and 
firewood,  holding  the  porous  soil  on  steep 
slopes,  preventing  landslips  and  avalanches, 
and  giving  kindly,  nourishing  shelter  to  ani 
mals  and  the  widely  outspread  sources  of  the 
life-giving  rivers.  The  other  trees  are  mostly 
spruce,  mountain  pine,  cedar,  juniper,  larch, 
and  balsam  fir;  some  of  them,  especially  on 
the  western  slopes  of  the  mountains,  attaining 
grand  size  and  furnishing  abundance  of  fine 
timber. 

Perhaps  the  least  known  of  all  this  grand 
group  of  reserves  .is  the  Bitter  Root,  of  more 
than  four  million  acres.  It  is  the  wildest,  shag 
giest  block  of  forest  wildness  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  full  of  happy,  healthy,  storm- 
loving  trees,  full  of  streams  that  dance  and 
sing  in  glorious  array,  and  full  of  Nature's 
animals,  —  elk,  deer,  wild  sheep,  bears,  cats, 
and  innumerable  smaller  people. 

In  calm  Indian  summer,  when  the  heavy 
winds  are  hushed,  the  vast  forests  covering  hill 
and  dale,  rising  and  falling  over  the  rough 
topography  and  vanishing  in  the  distance, 
seem  lifeless.  No  moving  thing  is  seen  as  we 
climb  the  peaks,  and  only  the  low,  mellow  mur 
mur  of  falling  water  is  heard,  which  seems  to 
thicken  the  silence.  Nevertheless,  how  many 

19 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

hearts  with  warm  red  blood  in  them  are  beat 
ing  under  cover  of  the  woods,  and  how  many 
teeth  and  eyes  are  shining!  A  multitude  of 
animal  people,  intimately  related  to  us,  but  of 
whose  lives  we  know  almost  nothing,  are  as 
busy  about  their  own  affairs  as  we  are  about 
ours:  beavers  are  building  and  mending  dams 
and  huts  for  winter,  and  storing  them  with 
food;  bears  are  studying  winter  quarters  as 
they  stand  thoughtful  in  open  spaces,  while 
the  gentle  breeze  ruffles  the  long  hair  on  their 
backs;  elk  and  deer,  assembling  on  the  heights, 
are  considering  cold  pastures  where  they  will 
be  farthest  away  from  the  wolves;  squirrels 
and  marmots  are  busily  laying  up  provisions 
and  lining  their  nests  against  coming  frost  and 
snow  foreseen;  and  countless  thousands  of 
birds  are  forming  parties  and  gathering  their 
young  about  them  for  flight  to  the  southlands; 
while  butterflies  and  bees,  apparently  with  no 
thought  of  hard  times  to  come,  are  hovering 
above  the  late-blooming  goldenrods,  and,  with 
countless  other  insect  folk,  are  dancing  and 
humming  right  merrily  hi  the  sunbeams  and 
shaking  all  the  air  into  music. 

Wander  here  a  whole  summer,  if  you  can. 
Thousands  of  God's  wild  blessings  will  search 
you  and  soak  you  as  if  you  were  a  sponge,  and 
the  big  days  will  go  by  uncounted.  If  you  are 

20 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

business-tangled,  and  so  burdened  with  duty 
that  only  weeks  can  be  got  out  of  the  heavy- 
laden  year,  then  go  to  the  Flathead  Reserve; 
for  it  is  easily  and  quickly  reached  by  the 
Great  Northern  Railroad.  Get  off  the  track 
at  Belton  Station,  and  in  a  few  minutes  you  will 
find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  what  you  are  sure 
to  say  is  the  best  care-killing  scenery  on  the 
continent,  —  beautiful  lakes  derived  straight 
from  glaciers,  lofty  mountains  steeped  in 
lovely  nemophila-blue  skies  and  clad  with 
forests  and  glaciers,  mossy,  ferny  waterfalls 
in  their  hollows,  nameless  and  numberless, 
and  meadowy  gardens  abounding  in  the  best 
of  everything.  When  you  are  calm  enough  for 
discriminating  observation,  you  will  find  the 
king  of  the  larches,  one  of  the  best  of  the  West 
ern  giants,  beautiful,  picturesque,  and  regal 
in  port,  easily  the  grandest  of  all  the  larches 
in  the  world.  It  grows  to  a  height  of  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  feet,  with  a 
diameter  at  the  ground  of  five  to  eight  feet, 
throwing  out  its  branches  into  the  light  as  no 
other  tree  does.  To  those  who  before  have  seen 
only  the  European  larch  or  the  Lyall  species 
of  the  eastern  Rocky  Mountains,  or  the  little 
tamarack  or  hackmatack  of  the  Eastern  States 
and  Canada,  this  Western  king  must  be  a  reve 
lation. 

21 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Associated  with  this  grand  tree  in  the  mak 
ing  of  the  Flathead  forests  is  the  large  and 
beautiful  mountain  pine,  or  Western  white 
pine  (Finns  monticola),  the  invincible  contorta 
or  lodge-pole  pine,  and  spruce  and  cedar.  The 
forest  floor  is  covered  with  the  richest  beds  of 
Linncea  borealis  I  ever  saw,  thick  fragrant  car 
pets,  enriched  with  shining  mosses  here  and 
there,  and  with  clintonia,  pyrola,  moneses, 
and  vaccinium,  weaving  hundred-mile  beds 
of  bloom  that  would  have  made  blessed  old 
Linnaeus  weep  for  joy. 

Lake  McDonald,  full  of  brisk  trout,  is  hi 
the  heart  of  this  forest,  and  Avalanche  Lake 
is  ten  miles  above  McDonald,  at  the  feet  of 
a  group  of  glacier-laden  mountains.  Give  a 
month  at  least  to  this  precious  reserve.  The 
time  will  not  be  taken  from  the  sum  of  your 
life.  Instead  of  shortening,  it  will  indefinitely 
lengthen  it  and  make  you  truly  immortal. 
Nevermore  will  tune  seem  short  or  long,  and 
cares  will  never  again  fall  heavily  on  you,  but 
gently  and  kindly  as  gifts  from  heaven. 

The  vast  Pacific  Coast  reserves  in  Washing 
ton  and  Oregon  —  the  Cascade,  Washington, 
Mount  Rainier,  Olympic,  Bull  Run,  and  Ash 
land,  named  in  order  of  size  —  include  more 
than  12,500,000  acres  of  magnificent  forests 
of  beautiful  and  gigantic  trees.  They  extend 
22 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

over  the  wild,  unexplored  Olympic  Mountains 
and  both  flanks  of  the  Cascade  Range,  the  wet 
and  the  dry.  On  the  east  side  of  the  Cascades 
the  woods  are  sunny  and  open,  and  contain 
principally  yellow  pine,  of  moderate  size,  but 
of  great  value  as  a  cover  for  the  irrigating 
streams  that  flow  into  the  dry  interior,  where 
agriculture  on  a  grand  scale  is  being  carried 
on.  Along  the  moist,  balmy,  foggy,  west  flank 
of  the  mountains,  facing  the  sea,  the  woods 
reach  their  highest  development,  and,  except 
ing  the  California  redwoods,  are  the  heaviest 
on  the  continent.  They  are  made  up  mostly 
of  the  Douglas  spruce  (Pseudotsuga  taxifolia), 
with  the  giant  arbor-vitae,  or  cedar,  and  sev 
eral  species  of  fir  and  hemlock  in  varying 
abundance,  forming  a  forest  kingdom  unlike 
any  other,  in  which  limb  meets  limb,  touching 
and  overlapping  in  bright,  lively,  triumphant 
exuberance,  two  hundred  and  fifty,  three  hun 
dred,  and  even  four  hundred  feet  above  the 
shady,  mossy  ground.  Over  all  the  other  species 
the  Douglas  spruce  reigns  supreme.  It  is  not 
only  a  large  tree,  the  tallest  in  America  next 
to  the  redwood,  but  a  very  beautiful  one,  with, 
bright  green  drooping  foliage,  handsome  pen 
dent  cones,  and  a  shaft  exquisitely  straight  and 
round  and  regular.  Forming  extensive  forests 
by  itself  hi  many  places,  it  lifts  its  spiry  tops 

23 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

into  the  sky  close  together  with  as  even  a 
growth  as  a  well-tilled  field  of  grain.  No  ground 
has  been  better  tilled  for  wrheat  than  these 
Cascade  Mountains  for  trees:  they  were 
ploughed  by  mighty  glaciers,  and  harrowed 
and  mellowed  and  outspread  by  the  broad 
streams  that  flowed  from  the  ice-ploughs  as 
they  were  withdrawn  at  the  close  of  the  glacial 
period. 

In  proportion  to  its  weight  when  dry,  Doug 
las  spruce  timber  is  perhaps  stronger  than  that 
of  any  other  large  conifer  hi  the  country,  and 
being  tough,  durable,  and  elastic,  it  is  admir 
ably  suited  for  ship-building,  piles,  and  heavy 
timbers  in  general;  but  its  hardness  and  lia 
bility  to  warp  when  it  is  cut  into  boards  render 
it  unfit  for  fine  work.  In  the  lumber  markets 
of  California  it  is  called  "Oregon  pine."  When 
lumbering  is  going  on  in  the  best  Douglas 
woods,  especially  about  Puget  Sound,  many 
of  the  long,  slender  boles  are  saved  for  spars; 
and  so  superior  is  their  quality  that  they  are 
called  for  in  almost  every  shipyard  in  the 
world,  and  it  is  interesting  to  follow  their  for 
tunes.  Felled  and  peeled  and  dragged  to  tide 
water,  they  are  raised  again  as  yards  and  masts 
for  ships,  given  iron  roots  and  canvas  foliage, 
decorated  with  flags,  and  sent  to  sea,  where  in 
glad  motion  they  go  cheerily  over  the  ocean 
24 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

prairie  in  every  latitude  and  longitude,  sing 
ing  and  bowing  responsive  to  the  same  winds 
that  waved  them  when  they  were  in  the  woods. 
After  standing  in  one  place  for  centuries  they 
thus  go  round  the  world  like  tourists,  meeting 
many  a  friend  from  the  old  home  forest;  some 
traveling  like  themselves,  some  standing  head 
downward  in  muddy  harbors,  holding  up  the 
platforms  of  wharves,  and  others  doing  all 
kinds  of  hard  timber  work,  showy  or  hidden. 

This  wonderful  tree  also  grows  far  north 
ward  in  British  Columbia,  and  southward 
along  the  coast  and  middle  regions  of  Oregon 
and  California;  flourishing  with  the  redwood 
wherever  it  can  find  an  opening,  and  with  the 
sugar  pine,  yellow  pine,  and  libocedrus  in  the 
Sierra.  It  extends  into  the  San  Gabriel,  San 
Bernardino,  and  San  Jacinto  Mountains  of 
southern  California.  It  also  grows  well  on  the 
Wasatch  Mountains,  where  it  is  called  "red 
pine,"  and  on  many  parts  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  and  short  interior  ranges  of  the  Great 
Basin.  But  though  thus  widely  distributed, 
only  in  Oregon,  Washington,  and  some  parts 
of  British  Columbia  does  it  reach  perfect  devel 
opment. 

To  one  who  looks  from  some  high  stand 
point  over  its  vast  breadth,  the  forest  on  the 
west  side  of  the  Cascades  seems  all  one  dim, 

25 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

dark,  monotonous  field,  broken  only  by  the 
white  volcanic  cones  along  the  summit  of  the 
range.  Back  in  the  untrodden  wilderness  a 
deep  furred  carpet  of  brown  and  yellow  mosses 
covers  the  ground  like  a  garment,  pressing 
about  the  feet  of  the  trees,  and  rising  in  rich 
bosses  softly  and  kindly  over  every  rock  and 
mouldering  trunk,  leaving  no  spot  uncared  for; 
and  dotting  small  prairies,  and  fringing  the 
meadows  and  the  banks  of  streams  not  seen 
in  general  views,  we  find,  besides  the  great 
conifers,  a  considerable  number  of  hardwood 
trees,  —  oak,  ash,  maple,  alder,  wild  apple, 
cherry,  arbutus,  Nuttall's  flowering  dogwood, 
and  in  some  places  chestnut.  In  a  few  favored 
spots  the  broad-leaved  maple  grows  to  a  height 
of  a  hundred  feet  in  forests  by  itself,  sending 
out  large  limbs  in  magnificent  interlacing  arches 
covered  with  mosses  and  ferns,  thus  forming 
lofty  sky-gardens,  and  rendering  the  underwoods 
delightfully  cool.  No  finer  forest  ceiling  is  to 
be  found  than  these  maple  arches,  while  the 
floor,  ornamented  with  tall  ferns  and  rubus 
vines,  and  cast  into  hillocks  by  the  bulging, 
moss-covered  roots  of  the  trees,  matches  it  well. 
Passing  from  beneath  the  heavy  shadows  of 
the  woods,  almost  anywhere  one  steps  into 
lovely  gardens  of  lilies,  orchids,  heathworts, 
and  wild  roses.  Along  the  lowrer  slopes,  es- 

26 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

pecially  in  Oregon,  where  the  woods  are  less 
dense,  there  are  miles  of  rhododendron,  making 
glorious  masses  of  purple  in  the  spring,  while 
all  about  the  streams  and  the  lakes  and  the 
beaver  meadows  there  is  a  rich  tangle  of  hazel, 
plum,  cherry,  crab-apple,  cornel,  gaultheria, 
and  rubus,  with  myriads  of  flowers  and  abun 
dance  of  other  more  delicate  bloomers,  such 
as  erythronium,  brodiaea,  fritillaria,  calochor- 
tus,  clintonia,  and  the  lovely  hider  of  the 
north,  calypso.  Beside  all  these  bloomers  there 
are  wonderful  ferneries  about  the  many  misty 
waterfalls,  some  of  the  fronds  ten  feet  high, 
others  the  most  delicate  of  their  tribe,  the 
maidenhair  fringing  the  rocks  within  reach  of 
the  lightest  dust  of  the  spray,  while  the  shading 
trees  on  the  cliffs  above  them,  leaning  over, 
look  like  eager  listeners  anxious  to  catch  every 
tone  of  the  restless  waters.  In  the  autumn 
berries  of  every  color  and  flavor  abound, 
enough  for  birds,  bears,  and  everybody,  par 
ticularly  about  the  stream-sides  and  meadows 
where  sunshine  reaches  the  ground:  huckle 
berries,  red,  blue,  and  black,  some  growing 
close  to  the  ground,  others  -on  bushes  ten  feet 
high;  gaultheria  berries,  called  "sal-al"  by  the 
Indians;  salmon  berries,  an  inch  in  diameter, 
growing  in  dense  prickly  tangles,  the  flowers, 
like  wild  roses,  still  more  beautiful  than  the 
27 


fruit;  raspberries,  gooseberries,  currants,  black 
berries,  and  strawberries.  The  underbrush  and 
meadow  fringes  are  in  great  part  made  up 
of  these  berry  bushes  and  vines;  but  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods  there  is  not  much  under 
brush  of  any  kind,  —  only  a  thin  growth  of 
rubus,  huckleberry,  and  vine-maple. 

Notwithstanding  the  outcry  against  the 
reservations  last  winter  in  Washington,  that 
uncounted  farms,  towns,  and  villages  were 
included  in  them,  and  that  all  business  was 
threatened  or  blocked,  nearly  all  the  mountains 
in  which  the  reserves  lie  are  still  covered  with 
virgin  forests.  Though  lumbering  has  long 
been  carried  on  with  tremendous  energy  along 
their  boundaries,  and  home-seekers  have  ex 
plored  the  woods  for  openings  available  for 
farms,  however  small,  one  may  wander  in  the 
heart  of  the  reserves  for  weeks  without  meet 
ing  a  human  being,  Indian  or  white  man,  or 
any  conspicuous  trace  of  one.  Indians  used  to 
ascend  the  main  streams  on  their  way  to  the 
mountains  for  wild  goats,  whose  wool  furnished 
them  clothing.  But  with  food  in  abundance  on 
the  coast  there  was  little  to  draw  them  into 
the  woods,  and  the  monuments  they  have  left 
there  are  scarcely  more  conspicuous  than  those 
of  birds  and  squirrels;  far  less  so  than  those  of 
the  beavers,  which  have  dammed  streams  and 

28 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

made  clearings  that  will  endure  for  centuries. 
Nor  is  there  much  in  these  woods  to  attract 
cattle-keepers.  Some  of  the  first  settlers  made 
farms  on  the  small  bits  of  prairie  and  in  the 
comparatively  open  Cowlitz  and  Chehalis 
valleys  of  Washington;  but  before  the  gold 
period  most  of  the  immigrants  from  the  East 
ern  States  settled  in  the  fertile  and  open  Willa 
mette  Valley  of  Oregon.  Even  now,  when  the 
search  for  tillable  land  is  so  keen,  excepting 
the  bottom-lands  of  the  rivers  around  Puget 
Sound,  there  are  few  cleared  spots  in  all  west 
ern  Washington.  On  every  meadow  or  open 
ing  of  any  sort  some  one  will  be  found  keeping 
cattle,  raising  hops,  or  cultivating  patches  of 
grain,  but  these  spots  are  few  and  far  between. 
All  the  larger  spaces  were  taken  long  ago; 
therefore  most  of  the  newcomers  build  their 
cabins  where  the  beavers  built  theirs.  They 
keep  a  few  cows,  laboriously  widen  their  little 
meadow  openings  by  hacking,  girdling,  and 
burning  the  run  of  the  close-pressing  forest, 
and  scratch  and  plant  among  the  huge  black 
ened  logs  and  stumps,  girdling  and  killing 
themselves  in  killing  the  trees. 

Most  of  the  farm  lands  of  Washington  and 
Oregon,  excepting  the  valleys  of  the  Willa 
mette  and  Rogue  rivers,  lie  on  the  east  side 
of  the  mountains.  The  forests  on  the  eastern 

29 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

slopes  of  the  Cascades  fail  altogether  ere  the 
foot  of  the  range  is  reached,  stayed  by  drought 
as  suddenly  as  on  the  west  side  they  are 
stopped  by  the  sea;  showing  strikingly  how 
dependent  are  these  forest  giants  on  the  gen 
erous  rains  and  fogs  so  often  complained  of  in 
the  coast  climate.  The  lower  portions  of  the 
reserves  are  solemnly  soaked  and  poulticed 
in  rain  and  fog  during  the  whiter  months,  and 
there  is  a  sad  dearth  of  sunshine,  but  with  a 
little  knowledge  of  woodcraft  any  one  may 
enjoy  an  excursion  into  these  woods  even  in 
the  rainy  season.  The  big,  gray  days  are  ex 
hilarating,  and  the  colors  of  leaf  and  branch 
and  mossy  bole  are  then  at  their  best.  The 
mighty  trees  getting  their  food  are  seen  to  be 
wide-awake,  every  needle  thrilling  in  the  wel 
come  nourishing  storms,  chanting  and  bowing 
low  in  glorious  harmony,  while  every  raindrop 
and  snowflake  is  seen  as  a  beneficent  messenger 
from  the  sky.  The  snow  that  falls  on  the  lower 
woods  is  mostly  soft,  coming  through  the  trees 
in  downy  tufts,  loading  their  branches,  and 
bending  them  down  against  the  trunks  until 
they  look  like  arrows,  while  a  strange  muffled 
silence  prevails,  making  everything  impres 
sively  solemn.  But  these  lowland  snowstorms 
and  their  effects  quickly  vanish.  The  snow 
melts  in  a  day  or  two,  sometimes  in  a  few  hours, 
30 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

the  bent  branches  spring  up  again,  and  all  the 
forest  work  is  left  to  the  fog  and  the  rain.  At 
the  same  time,  dry  snow  is  falling  on  the  upper 
forests  and  mountain  tops.  Day  after  day, 
often  for  weeks,  the  big  clouds  give  their  flow 
ers  without  ceasing,  as  if  knowing  how  impor 
tant  is  the  work  they  have  to  do.  The  glint 
ing,  swirling  swarms  thicken  the  blast,  and 
the  trees  and  rocks  are  covered  to  a  depth 
of  ten  to  twenty  feet.  Then  the  mountaineer, 
snug  in  a  grove  with  bread  and  fire,  has  noth 
ing  to  do  but  gaze  and  listen  and  enjoy.  Ever 
and  anon  the  deep,  low  roar  of  the  storm  is 
broken  by  the  booming  of  avalanches,  as  the 
snow  slips  from  the  overladen  heights  and 
rushes  down  the  long  white  slopes  to  fill  the 
fountain  hollows.  All  the  smaller  streams  are 
hushed  and  buried,  and  the  young  groves  of 
spruce  and  fir  near  the  edge  of  the  timber-line 
are  gently  bowed  to  the  ground  and  put  to 
sleep,  not  again  to  see  the  light  of  day  or  stir 
branch  or  leaf  until  the  spring. 

These  grand  reservations  should  draw  thou 
sands  of  admiring  visitors  at  least  in  summer, 
yet  they  are  neglected  as  if  of  no  account,  and 
spoilers  are  -allowed  to  ruin  them  as  fast  as 
they  like.1  A  few  peeled  spars  cut  here  were 

1  The  outlook  over  forest  affairs  is  now  encouraging. 
Popular  interest,  more  practical  than  sentimental  in  what- 

31 


set  up  in  London,  Philadelphia,  and  Chicago, 
where  they  excited  wondering  attention;  but 
the  countless  hosts  of  living  trees  rejoicing  at 
home  on  the  mountains  are  scarce  considered 
at  all.  Most  travelers  here  are  content  with 
what  they  can  see  from  car  windows  or  the 
verandas  of  hotels,  and  in  going  from  place  to 
place  cling  to  their  precious  trains  and  stages 
like  wrecked  sailors  to  rafts.  When  an  excur 
sion  into  the  woods  is  proposed,  all  sorts  of 
dangers  are  imagined,  —  snakes,  bears,  In 
dians.  Yet  it  is  far  safer  to  wander  in  God's 
woods  than  to  travel  on  black  highways  or  to 
stay  at  home.  The  snake  danger  is  so  slight 
it  is  hardly  worth  mentioning.  Bears  are  a 
peaceable  people,  and  mind  their  own  business, 
instead  of  going  about  like  the  devil  seeking 
whom  they  may  devour.  Poor  fellows,  they 
have  been  poisoned,  trapped,  and  shot  at  until 
they  have  lost  confidence  in  brother  man,  and 
it  is  not  now  easy  to  make  their  acquaintance. 
As  to  Indians,  most  of  them  are  dead  or  civ 
ilized  into  useless  innocence.  No  American 
wilderness  that  I  know  of  is  so  dangerous  as  a 

ever  touches  the  welfare  of  the  country's  forests,  is  growing 
rapidly,  and  a  hopeful  beginning  has  been  made  by  the  Gov 
ernment  in  real  protection  for  the  reservations  as  well  as  for 
the  parks.  [There  are  now  (1916)  in  the  field  one  hundred 
and  fifty-one  forest  supervisors,  eighty-two  deputy  super 
visors,  and  about  twenty-three  hundred  rangers  and  guards.] 

32 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

city  home  "with  all  the  modern  improvements." 
One  should  go  to  the  woods  for  safety,  if  for 
nothing  else.  Lewis  and  Clark,  in  their  famous 
trip  across  the  continent  in  1804-05,  did  not 
lose  a  single  man  by  Indians  or  animals,  though 
all  the  West  was  then  wild.  Captain  Clark 
was  bitten  on  the  hand  as  he  lay  asleep.  That 
was  one  bite  among  more  than  a  hundred  men 
while  traveling  nine  thousand  miles.  Loggers 
are  far  more  likely  to  be  met  than  Indians  or 
bears  in  the  reserves  or  about  their  boundaries, 
brown  weather-tanned  men  with  faces  fur 
rowed  like  bark,  tired-looking,  moving  slowly, 
swaying  like  the  trees  they  chop.  A  little  of 
everything  in  the  woods  is  fastened  to  their 
clothing,  rosiny  and  smeared  with  balsam, 
and  rubbed  into  it,  so  that  their  scanty  outer 
garments  grow  thicker  with  use  and  never 
wear  out.  Many  a  forest  giant  have  these  old 
woodmen  felled,  but,  round-shouldered  and 
stooping,  they  too  are  leaning  over  and  totter 
ing  to  their  fall.  Others,  however,  stand  ready 
to  take  their  places,  stout  young  fellows,  erect 
as  saplings;  and  always  the  foes  of  trees  out 
number  their  friends.  Far  up  the  white  peaks 
one  can  hardly  fail  to  meet  the  wild  goat,  or 
American  chamois,  —  an  admirable  moun 
taineer,  familiar  with  woods  and  glaciers  as 
well  as  rocks,  —  and  in  leafy  thickets  deer  will 

33 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

be  found;  while  gliding  about  unseen  there  are 
many  sleek  furred  animals  enjoying  their 
beautiful  lives,  and  birds  also,  notwithstand 
ing  few  are  noticed  in  hasty  walks.  The  ouzel 
sweetens  the  glens  and  gorges  where  the 
streams  flow  fastest,  and  every  grove  has  its 
singers,  however  silent  it  seems,  —  thrushes, 
linnets,  warblers;  humming-birds  glint  about 
the  fringing  bloom  of  the  meadows  and  peaks, 
and  the  lakes  are  stirred  into  lively  pictures 
by  water-fowl. 

The  Mount  Rainier  Forest  Reserve  should 
be  made  a  national  park  and  guarded  while 
yet  its  bloom  is  on; l  for  if  in  the  making  of  the 
West  Nature  had  what  we  call  parks'  in  mind, 
—  places  for  rest,  inspiration,  and  prayers,  — • 
this  Rainier  region  must  surely  be  one  of  them. 
In  the  center  of  it  there  is  a  lonely  mountain 
capped  with  ice;  from  the  ice-cap  glaciers  radi 
ate  in  every  direction,  and  young  rivers  from 
the  glaciers;  while  its  flanks,  sweeping  down 
in  beautiful  curves,  are  clad  with  forests  and 

1  This  was  done  shortly  after  the  above  was  written. 
"One  of  the  most  important  measures  taken  during  the  past 
year  in  connection  with  forest  reservations  was  the  action 
of  Congress  in  withdrawing  from  the  Mount  Rainier  Forest 
Reserve  a  portion  of  the  region  immediately  surrounding 
Mount  Rainier  and  setting  it  apart  as  a  national  park." 
(Report  of  the  Commissioner  of  General  Land  Office,  for  the 
year  ended  June,  1899.)  But  the  park  as  it  now  stands  is 
far  too  small. 

34 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

gardens,  and  filled  with  birds  and  animals. 
Specimens  of  the  best  of  Nature's  treasures 
have  been  lovingly  gathered  here  and  ar 
ranged  in  simple  symmetrical  beauty  within 
regular  bounds. 

Of  all  the  fire-mountains  which,  like  bea 
cons,  once  blazed  along  the  Pacific  Coast, 
Mount  Rainier  is  the  noblest  in  form,  has  the 
most  interesting  forest  cover,  and,  with  per 
haps  the  exception  of  Shasta,  is  the  highest 
and  most  flowery.  Its  massive  white  dome 
rises  out  of  its  forests,  like  a  world  by  itself, 
to  a  height  of  fourteen  thousand  to  fifteen 
thousand  feet.  The  forests  reach  to  a  height  of 
a  little  over  six  thousand  feet,  and  above  the 
forests  there  is  a  zone  of  the  loveliest  flowers, 
fifty  miles  in  circuit  and  nearly  two  miles  wide, 
so  closely  planted  and  luxuriant  that  it  seems 
as  if  Nature,  glad  to  make  an  open  space  be 
tween  woods  so  dense  and  ice  so  deep,  were 
economizing  the  precious  ground,  and  trying 
to  see  hpw  many  of  her  darlings  she  can  get 
together  in  one  mountain  wreath,  —  daisies, 
anemones,  geraniums,  columbines,  erythro- 
niums,  larkspurs,  etc.,  among  which  we  wade 
knee-deep  and  waist-deep,  the  bright  corollas 
in  myriads  touching  petal  to  petal.  Picturesque 
detached  groups  of  the  spiry  Abies  laswcarpa 
stand  like  islands  along  the  lower  margin  of 

35 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  garden  zone,  while  on  the  upper  margin 
there  are  extensive  beds  of  bryanthus,  cassi- 
ope,  kalmia,  and  other  heathworts,  and  higher 
still  saxifrages  and  drabas,  more  and  more 
lowly,  reach  up  to  the  edge  of  the  ice.  Alto 
gether  this  is  the  richest  subalpine  garden  I 
ever  found,  a  perfect  floral  elysium.  The  icy 
dome  needs  none  of  man's  care,  but  unless  the 
reserve  is  guarded  the  flower  bloom  will  soon 
be  killed,  and  nothing  of  the  forests  will  be 
left  but  black  stump  monuments. 

The  Sierra  of  California  is  the  most  openly 
beautiful  and  useful  of  all  the  forest  reserves, 
and  the  largest  excepting  the  Cascade  Reserve 
of  Oregon  and  the  Bitter  Root  of  Montana 
and  Idaho.  It  embraces  over  four  million  acres 
of  the  grandest  scenery  and  grandest  trees  on 
the  continent,  and  its  forests  are  planted  just 
where  they  do  the  most  good,  not  only  for 
beauty,  but  for  farming  in  the  great  San  Joa- 
quin  Valley  beneath  them.  It  extends  south 
ward  from  the  Yosemite  National  Park  to  the 
end  of  the  range,  a  distance  of  nearly  two  hun 
dred  miles.  No  other  coniferous  forest  in  the 
world  contains  so  many  species  or  so  many 
large  and  beautiful  trees,  — •  Sequoia  gigantea, 
king  of  conifers,  "the  noblest  of  a  noble  race," 
as  Sir  Joseph  Hooker  well  says;  the  sugar  pine, 
king  of  all  the  world's  pines,  living  or  extinct; 

36 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

the  yellow  pine,  next  in  rank,  which  here 
reaches  most  perfect  development,  forming 
noble  towers  of  verdure  two  hundred  feet 
high;  the  mountain  pine,  which  braves  the 
coldest  blasts  far  up  the  mountains  on  grim, 
rocky  slopes;  and  five  others,  flourishing  each 
in  its  place,  making  eight  species  of  pine  in  one 
forest,  which  is  still  further  enriched  by  the 
great  Douglas  spruce,  libocedrus,  two  species 
of  silver  fir,  large  trees  and  exquisitely  beauti 
ful,  the  Paton  hemlock,  the  most  graceful  of 
evergreens,  the  curious  tumion,  oaks  of  many 
species,  maples,  alders,  poplars,  and  flowering 
dogwood,  all  fringed  with  flowery  underbrush, 
manzanita,  ceanothus,  wild  rose,  cherry,  chest 
nut,  and  rhododendron.  Wandering  at  ran 
dom  through  these  friendly,  approachable 
woods,  one  comes  here  and  there  to  the  loveli 
est  lily  gardens,  some  of  the  lilies  ten  feet  high, 
and  the  smoothest  gentian  meadows,  and 
Yosemite  valleys  known  only  to  mountaineers. 
Once  I  spent  a  night  by  a  camp-fire  on  Mount 
Shasta  with  Asa  Gray  and  Sir  Joseph  Hooker, 
and,  knowing  that  they  were  acquainted  with 
all  the  great  forests  of  the  world,  I  asked 
whether  they  knew  any  coniferous  forest  that 
rivaled  that  of  the  Sierra.  They  unhesitat 
ingly  said:  "No.  In  the  beauty  and  gran 
deur  of  individual  trees,  and  in  number  and 

37 


42807 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

variety  of  species,  the  Sierra  forests  surpass  all 
others." 

This  Sierra  Reserve,  proclaimed  by  the 
President  of  the  United  States  in  September, 
1893,  is  worth  the  most  thoughtful  care  of  the 
Government  for  its  own  sake,  without  consid 
ering  its  value  as  the  fountain  of  the  rivers  on 
which  the  fertility  of  the  great  San  Joaquin 
Valley  depends.  Yet  it  gets  no  care  at  all.  In 
the  fog  of  tariff,  silver,  and  annexation  politics 
it  is  left  wholly  unguarded,  though  the  man 
agement  of  the  adjacent  national  parks  by  a 
few  soldiers  shows  how  well  and  how  easily  it 
can  be  preserved.  In  the  mean  time,  lumber 
men  are  allowed  to  spoil  it  at  their  will,  and 
sheep  in  uncountable  ravenous  hordes  to  tram 
ple  it  and  devour  every  green  leaf  within  reach; 
while  the  shepherds,  like  destroying  angels, 
set  innumerable  fires,  which  burn  not  only  the 
undergrowth  of  seedlings  on  which  the  perma 
nence  of  the  forest  depends,  but  countless  thou 
sands  of  the  venerable  giants.  If  every  citizen 
could  take  one  walk  through  this  reserve,  there 
would  be  no  more  trouble  about  its  care;  for 
only  in  darkness  does  vandalism  flourish.1 

The  reserves  of  southern  California,  —  the 
San  Gabriel,  San  Bernardino,  San  Jacinto, 
and  Trabuco,  —  though  not  large,  only  about 

1  See  note,  pp.  31,  32. 
38 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

two  million  acres  together,  are  perhaps  the 
best  appreciated.  Their  slopes  are  covered 
with  a  close,  almost  impenetrable  growth  of 
flowery  bushes,  beginning  on  the  sioles  of  the 
fertile  coast  valleys  and  the  dry  interior  plains. 
Their  higher  ridges,  however,  and  mountains 
are  open,  and  fairly  well  forested  with  sugar 
pine,  yellow  pine,  Douglas  spruce,  libocedrus, 
and  white  fir.  As  timber  fountains  they  amount 
to  little,  but  as  bird  and  bee  pastures,  cover  for 
the  precious  streams  that  irrigate  the  lowlands, 
and  quickly  available  retreats  from  dust  and 
heat  and  care,  their  value  is  incalculable. 
Good  roads  have  been  graded  into  them,  by 
which  in  a  few  hours  lowlanders  can  get  well 
up  into  the  sky  and  find  refuge  in  hospitable 
camps  and  club-houses,  where,  while  breath 
ing  reviving  ozone,  they  may  absorb  the 
beauty  about  them,  and  look  comfortably 
down  on  the  busy  towns  and  the  most  beauti 
ful  orange  groves  ever  planted  since  gardening 
began. 

The  Grand  Canon  Reserve  of  Arizona,  of 
nearly  two  million  acres,  or  the  most  interest 
ing  part  of  it,  as  well  as  the  Rainier  region, 
should  be  made  into  a  national  park,  on  ac 
count  of  their  supreme  grandeur  and  beauty. 
Setting  out  from  Flagstaff,  a  station  on  the 
Atchison,  Topeka,  and  Santa  Fe*  Railroad,  on 
39 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  way  to  the  canon  you  pass  through  beau 
tiful  forests  of  yellow  pine,  —  like  those  of  the 
Black  Hills,  but  more  extensive,  —  and  curi 
ous  dwarHorests  of  nut  pine  and  juniper,  the 
spaces  between  the  miniature  trees  planted 
with  many  interesting  species  of  eriogonum, 
yucca,  and  cactus.  After  riding  or  walking 
seventy-five  miles  through  these  pleasure- 
grounds,  the  San  Francisco  and  other  moun 
tains,  abounding  in  flowery  parkfike  openings 
and  smooth  shallow  valleys  with  long  vistas 
which  in  fineness  of  finish  and  arrangement 
suggest  the  work  of  a  consummate  landscape 
artist,  watching  you  all  the  way,  you  come  to 
the  most  tremendous  canon  hi  the  world.  It 
is  abruptly  countersunk  hi  the  forest  plateau, 
so  that  you  see  nothing  of  it  until  you  are  sud 
denly  stopped  on  its  brink,  with  its  immeas 
urable  wealth  of  divinely  colored  and  sculp 
tured  buildings  before  you  and  beneath  you. 
No  matter  how  far  you  have  wandered  hither 
to,  or  how  many  famous  gorges  and  valleys 
you  have  seen,  this  one,  the  Grand  Canon  of 
the  Colorado,  will  seem  as  novel  to  you,  as 
unearthly  hi  the  color  and  grandeur  and  quan 
tity  of  its  architecture,  as  if  you  had  found  it 
after  death,  on  some  other  star;  so  incompara 
bly  lovely  and  grand  and  supreme  is  it  above 
all  the  other  canons  hi  our  fire-moulded,  earth- 
40 


WILD  PARKS  AND  RESERVATIONS 

quake-shaken,  rain-washed,  wave-washed,  river 
and  glacier  sculptured  world.  It  is  about  six 
thousand  feet  deep  where  you  first  see  it,  and 
from  rim  to  rim  ten  to  fifteen  miles  wide.  In 
stead  of  being  dependent  for  interest  upon 
waterfalls,  depth,  wall  sculpture,  and  beauty 
of  parklike  floor,  like  most  other  great  canons, 
it  has  no  waterfalls  in  sight,  and  no  apprecia 
ble  floor  spaces.  The  big  river  has  just  room 
enough  to  flow  and  roar  obscurely,  here  and 
there  groping  its  way  as  best  it  can,  like  a 
weary,  murmuring,  overladen  traveler  trying 
to  escape  from  the  tremendous,  bewildering 
labyrinthine  abyss,  while  its  roar  serves  only 
to  deepen  the  silence.  Instead  of  being  filled 
with  ah*,  the  vast  space  between  the  walls  is 
crowded  with  Nature's  grandest  buildings,  — 
a  sublime  city  of  them,  painted  in  every  color, 
and  adorned  with  richly  fretted  cornice  and 
battlement  spire  and  tower  in  endless  variety 
of  style  and  architecture.  Every  architectural 
invention  of  man  has  been  anticipated,  and 
far  more,  in  this  grandest  of  God's  terrestrial 
cities. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   YELLOWSTONE    NATIONAL   PARK 

OF  the  four  national  parks  of  the  West,  the 
Yellowstone  is  far  the  largest.  It  is  a  big, 
wholesome  wilderness  on  the  broad  summit 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  favored  with  abun 
dance  of  rain  and  snow,  —  a  place  of  foun 
tains  where  the  greatest  of  the  American  rivers 
take  their  rise.  The  central  portion  is  a  densely 
forested  and  comparatively  level  volcanic  pla 
teau  with  an  average  elevation  of  about  eight 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  surrounded  by 
an  imposing  host  of  mountains  belonging  to 
the  subordinate  Gallatin,  Wind  River,  Teton, 
Absaroka,  and  snowy  ranges.  Unnumbered 
lakes  shine  in  it,  united  by  a  famous  band  of 
streams  that  rush  up  out  of  hot  lava  beds, 
or  fall  from  the  frosty  peaks  in  channels 
rocky  and  bare,  mossy  and  bosky,  to  the  main 
rivers,  singing  cheerily  on  through  every  dif 
ficulty,  cunningly  dividing  and  finding  their 
way  east 'and  west  to  the  two  far-off  seas. 

Glacier  meadows  and  beaver  meadows  are 
outspread  with  charming  effect  along  the 
banks  of  the  streams,  parklike  expanses  in  the 
woods,  and  innumerable  small  gardens  in 

42 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

rocky  recesses  of  the  mountains,  some  of  them 
containing  more  petals  than  leaves,  while  the 
whole  wilderness  is  enlivened  with  happy  ani 
mals. 

Beside  the  treasures  common  to  most  moun 
tain  regions  that  are  wild  and  blessed  with  a 
kind  climate,  the  park  is  full  of  exciting  won 
ders.  The  wildest  geysers  in  the  world,  in 
bright,  triumphant  bands,  are  dancing  and 
singing  in  it  amid  thousands  of  boiling  springs, 
beautiful  and  awful,  their  basins  arrayed  in 
gorgeous  colors  like  gigantic  flowers;  and  hot 
paint-pots,  mud  springs,  mud  volcanoes,  mush 
and  broth  caldrons  whose  contents  are  of  every 
color  and  consistency,  plash  and  heave  and 
roar  in  bewildering  abundance.  In  the  adja 
cent  mountains,  beneath  the  living  trees  the 
edges  of  petrified  forests  are  exposed  to  view, 
like  specimens  on  the  shelves  of  a  museum, 
standing  on  ledges  tier  above  tier  where  they 
grew,  solemnly  silent  in  rigid  crystalline 
beauty  after  swaying  in  the  winds  thousands 
of  centuries  ago,  opening  marvelous  views 
back  into  the  years  and  climates  and  life  of  the 
past.  Here,  too,  are  hills  of  sparkling  crystals, 
hills  of  sulphur,  hills  of  glass,  hills  of  cinders 
and  ashes,  mountains  of  every  style  of  archi 
tecture,  icy  or  forested,  mountains  covered 
with  honey-bloom  sweet  as  Hymettus,  moun- 

43 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tains  boiled  soft  like  potatoes  and  colored  like  a 
sunset  sky.  A'  that  and  a'  that,  and  twice  as 
muckle  's  a'  that,  Nature  has  on  show  in  the 
Yellowstone  Park.  Therefore  it  is  called  Won 
derland,  and  thousands  of  tourists  and  travel 
ers  stream  into  it  every  summer,  and  wander 
about  hi  it  enchanted. 

Fortunately,  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  dis 
covered  it  was  dedicated  and  set  apart  for  the 
benefit  of  the  people,  a  piece  of  legislation  that 
shines  benignly  amid  the  common  dust-and- 
ashes  history  of  the  public  domain,  for  which 
the  world  must  thank  Professor  Hayden  above 
all  others;  for  he  led  the  first  scientific  explor 
ing  party  into  it,  described  it,  and  with  admir 
able  enthusiasm  urged  Congress  to  preserve 
it.  As  delineated  in  the  year  1872,  the  park 
contained  about  3344  square  miles.  On  March 
30,  1891,  it  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  en 
larged  by  the  Yellowstone  National  Park  Tim 
ber  Reserve,  and  in  December,  1897,  by  the 
Teton  Forest  Reserve;  thus  nearly  doubling 
its  original  area,  and  extending  the  southern 
boundary  far  enough  to  take  in  the  sublime 
Teton  range  and  the  famous  pasture  lands 
of  the  big  Rocky  Mountain  game  animals. 
The  withdrawal  of  this  large  tract  from  the 
public  domain  did  no  harm  to  any  one;  for 
its  height,  six  thousand  to  over  thirteen  thou- 

44 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

sand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  its  thick  man 
tle  of  volcanic  rocks,  prevent  its  ever  being 
available  for  agriculture  or  mining,  while  on 
the  other  hand  its  geographical  position,  re 
viving  climate,  and  wonderful  scenery  com 
bine  to  make  it  a  grand  health,  pleasure,  and 
study  resort,  —  a  gathering-place  for  travelers 
from  all  the  world. 

The  national  parks  are  not  only  withdrawn 
from  sale  and  entry  like  the  forest  reservations, 
but  are  efficiently  managed  and  guarded  by 
small  troops  of  United  States  cavalry,  directed 
by  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior.  Under  this 
care  the  forests  are  flourishing,  protected  from 
both  axe  and  fire;  and  so,  of  course,  are  the 
shaggy  beds  of  underbrush  and  the  herbaceous 
vegetation.  The  so-called  curiosities,  also,  are 
preserved,  and  the  furred  and  feathered  tribes, 
many  of  which,  in  danger  of  extinction  a  short 
tune  ago,  are  now  increasing  in  numbers, — 
a  refreshing  thing  to  see  amid  the  blind,  ruth 
less  destruction  that  is  going  on  in  the  adja 
cent  regions.  In  pleasing  contrast  to  the  noisy, 
ever-changing  management,  or  mismanage 
ment,  of  blundering,  plundering,  money-mak 
ing  vote-sellers  who  receive  their  places  from 
boss  politicians  as  purchased  goods,  the  sol 
diers  do  their  duty  so  quietly  that  the  traveler 
is  scarce  aware  of  their  presence. 
45 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

This  is  the  coolest  and  highest  of  the  parks. 
Frosts  occur  every  month  of  the  year.  Never 
theless,  the  tenderest  tourist  finds  it  warm 
enough  in  summer.  The  air  is  electric  and  full 
of  ozone,  healing,  reviving,  exhilarating,  kept 
pure  by  frost  and  fire,  while  the  scenery  is  wild 
enough  to  awaken  the  dead.  It  is  a  glorious 
place  to  grow  in  and  rest  in;  camping  on  the 
shores  of  the  lakes,  iri  the  warm  openings  of 
the  woods  golden  with  sunflowers,  on  the 
banks  of  the  streams,  by  the  snowy  waterfalls, 
beside  the  exciting  wonders  or  away  from  them 
in  the  scallops  of  the  mountain  walls  sheltered 
from  every  wind,  on  smooth  silky  lawns  enam 
eled  with  gentians,  up  in  the  fountain  hollows 
of  the  ancient  glaciers  between  the  peaks, 
where  cool  pools  and  brooks  and  gardens  of 
precious  plants  charmingly  embowered  are 
never  wanting,  and  good  rough  rocks  with 
every  variety  of  cliff  and  scaur  are  invitingly 
near  for  outlooks  and  exercise. 

From  these  lovely  dens  you  may  make  excur 
sions  whenever  you  like  into  the  middle  of  the 
park,  where  the  geysers  and  hot  springs  are 
reeking  and  spouting  in  their  beautiful  basins, 
displaying  an  exuberance  of  color  and  strange 
motion  and  energy  admirably  calculated  to 
surprise  and  frighten,  charm  and  shake  up  the 
least  sensitive  out  of  apathy  into  newness  of  life. 

46 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

However  orderly  your  excursions  or  aimless, 
again  and  again  amid  the  calmest,  stillest 
scenery  you  will  be  brought  to  a  standstill 
hushed  and  awe-stricken  before  phenomena 
wholly  new  to  you.  Boiling  springs  and  huge 
deep  pools  of  purest  green  and  azure  water, 
thousands  of  them,  are  plashing  and  heaving 
in  these  high,  cool  mountains  as  if  a  fierce  fur 
nace  fire  were  burning  beneath  each  one  of 
them;  and  a  hundred  geysers,  white  torrents 
of  boiling  water  and  steam,  like  inverted 
waterfalls,  are  ever  and  anon  rushing  up  out 
of  the  hot,  black  underworld.  Some  of  these 
ponderous  geyser  columns  are  as  large  as 
sequoias,  —  five  to  sixty  feet  in  diameter,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  to  three  hundred  feet  high, 
—  and  are  sustained  at  this  great  height  with 
tremendous  energy  for  a  few  minutes,  or  per 
haps  nearly  an  hour,  standing  rigid  and  erect, 
hissing,  throbbing,  booming,  as  if  thunder 
storms  were  raging  beneath  their  roots,  their 
sides  roughened  or  fluted  like  the  furrowed 
boles  of  trees,  their  tops  dissolving  in  feathery 
branches,  while  the  irised  spray,  like  misty 
bloom  is  at  times  blown  aside,  revealing  the 
massive  shafts  shining  against  a  background 
of  pine-covered  hills-j  Some  of  them  lean  more 
or  less,  as  if  storm-bent,  and  instead  of  being 
round  are  flat  or  fan-shaped,  issuing  from  ir- 

47 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

regular  slits  in  silex  pavements  with  radiate 
structure,  the  sunbeams  sifting  through  them 
in  ravishing  splendor.  Some  are  broad  and 
round-headed  like  oaks;  others  are  low  and 
bunchy,  branching  near  the  ground  like  bushes; 
and  a  few  are  hollow  in  the  centre  like  big 
daisies  or  water-lilies.  No  frost  cools  them, 
snow  never  covers  them  nor  lodges  in  their 
branches;  winter  and  summer  they  welcome 
alike;  all  of  them,  of  whatever  form  or  size, 
faithfully  rising  and  sinking  in  fairy  rhythmic 
dance  night  and  day,  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
at  varying  periods  of  minutes,  hours,  or  weeks, 
growing  up  rapidly,  uncontrollable  as  fate, 
tossing  their  pearly  branches  in  the  wind, 
bursting  into  bloom  and  vanishing  like  the 
frailest  flowers,  —  plants  of  which  Nature 
raises  hundreds  or  thousands  of  crops  a  year 
with  no  apparent  exhaustion  of  the  fiery  soil. 

The  so-called  geyser  basins,  in  which  this 
rare  sort  of  vegetation  is  growing,  are  mostly 
open  valleys  on  the  central  plateau  that  were 
eroded  by  glaciers  after  the  greater  volcanic 
fires  had  ceased  to  burn.  Looking  down  over 
the  forests  as  you  approach  them  from  the 
surrounding  heights,  you  see  a  multitude  of 
white  columns,  broad,  reeking  masses,  and 
irregular  jets  and  puffs  of  misty  vapor  ascend 
ing  from  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  or  entangled 

48 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

like  smoke  among  the  neighboring  trees,  sug 
gesting  the  factories  of  some  busy  town  or  the 
camp-fires  of  an  army.  These  mark  the  posi 
tion  of  each  mush-pot,  paint-pot,  hot  spring, 
and  geyser,  or  gusher,  as  the  Icelandic  words 
mean.  And  when  you  saunter  into  the  midst 
of  them  over  the  bright  sinter  pavements, 
and  see  how  pure  and  white  and  pearly  gray 
they  are  in  the  shade  of  the  mountains,  and 
how  radiant  in  the  sunshine,  you  are  fairly 
enchanted.  So  numerous  they  are  and  varied, 
Nature  seems  to  have  gathered  them  from  all 
the  world  as  specimens  of  her  rarest  fountains, 
to  show  hi  one  place  what  she  can  do.  Over 
four  thousand  hot  springs  have  been  counted 
in  the  park,  and  a  hundred  geysers;  how  many 
more  there  are  nobody  knows. 

These  valleys  at  the  heads  of  the  great  rivers 
may  be  regarded  as  laboratories  and  kitchens, 
hi  which,  amid  a  thousand  retorts  and  pots, 
we  may  see  Nature  at  work  as  chemist  or  cook, 
cunningly  compounding  an  infinite  variety 
of  mineral  messes;  cooking  whole  mountains; 
boiling  and  steaming  flinty  rocks  to  smooth 
paste  and  mush,  —  yellow,  brown,  red,  pink, 
lavender,  gray,  and  creamy  white,  —  making 
the  most  beautiful  mud  in  the  world;  and  dis 
tilling  the  most  ethereal  essences.  Many  of 
these  pots  and  caldrons  have  been  boiling 

49 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

thousands  of  years.  Pots  of  sulphurous  mush, 
stringy  and  lumpy,  and  pots  of  broth  as  black 
as  ink,  are  tossed  and  stirred  with  constant 
care,  and  thin  transparent  essences,  too  pure 
and  fine  to  be  called  water,  are  kept  simmer 
ing  gently  in  beautiful  sinter  cups  and  bowls 
that  grow  ever  more  beautiful  the  longer  they 
are  used.  In  some  of  the  spring  basins,  the 
waters,  though  still  warm,  are  perfectly  calm, 
and  shine  blandly  in  a  sod  of  overleaning  grass 
and  flowers,  as  if  they  were  thoroughly  cooked 
at  last,  and  set  aside  to  settle  and  cool.  Others 
are  wildly  boiling  over  as  if  running  to  waste, 
thousands  of  tons  of  the  precious  liquids  being 
thrown  into  the  ah*  to  fall  in  scalding  floods  on 
the  clean  coral  floor  of  the  establishment,  keep 
ing  onlookers  at  a  distance.  Instead  of  holding 
limpid  pale  green  or  azure  water,  other  pots 
and  craters  are  filled  with  scalding  mud,  which 
is  tossed  up  from  three  or  four  feet  to  thirty 
feet,  in  sticky,  rank-smelling  masses,  with 
gasping,  belching,  thudding  sounds,  plaster 
ing  the  branches  of  neighboring  trees;  every 
flask,  retort,  hot  spring,  and  geyser  has  some 
thing  special  in  it,  no  two  being  the  same  hi 
temperature,  color,  or  composition. 

In  these  natural  laboratories  one  needs 
stout  faith  to  feel  at  ease.  The  ground  sounds 
hollow  underfoot,  and  the  awful  subterranean 

50 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

thunder  shakes  one's  mind  as  the  ground  is 
shaken,  especially  at  night  in  the  pale  moon 
light,  or  when  the  sky  is  overcast  with  storm- 
clouds.  In  the  solemn  gloom,  the  geysers, 
dimly  visible,  look  like  monstrous  dancing 
ghosts,  and  their  wild  songs  and  the  earth 
quake  thunder  replying  to  the  storms  overhead 
seem  doubly  terrible,  as  if  divine  government 
were  at  an  end.  But  the  trembling  hills  keep 
their  places.  The  sky  clears,  the  rosy  dawn  is 
reassuring,  and  up  comes  the  sun  like  a  god, 
pouring  his  faithful  beams  across  the  moun 
tains  and  forest,  lighting  each  peak  and  tree 
and  ghastly  geyser  alike,  and  shining  into  the 
eyes  of  the  reeking  springs,  clothing  them  with 
rainbow  light,  and  dissolving  the  seeming 
chaos  of  darkness  into  varied  forms  of  har 
mony.  The  ordinary  work  of  the  world  goes 
on.  Gladly  we  see  the  flies  dancing  in  the  sun 
beams,  birds  feeding  their  young,  squirrels 
gathering  nuts,  and  hear  the  blessed  ouzel 
singing  confidingly  in  the  shallows  of  the 
river,  —  most  faithful  evangel,  calming  every 
fear,  reducing  everything  to  love. 

The  variously  tinted  sinter  and  travertine 
formations,  outspread  like  pavements  over 
large  areas  of  the  geyser  valleys,  lining  the 
spring  basins  and  throats  of  the  craters,  and 
forming  beautiful  coral-like  rims  and  curbs 

51 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

about  them,  always  excite  admiring  atten 
tion;  so  also  does  the  play  of  the  waters  from 
which  they  are  deposited.  The  various  min 
erals  in  them  are  rich  hi  colors,  and  these  are 
greatly  heightened  by  a  smooth,  silky  growth 
of  brilliantly  colored  confervae  which  lines 
many  of  the  pools  and  channels  and  terraces. 
No  bed  of  flower-bloom  is  more  exquisite  than 
these  myriads  of  minute  plants,  visible  only 
hi  mass,  growing  hi  the  hot  waters.  Most  of 
the  spring  borders  are  low  and  daintily  scal 
loped,  crenelated,  and  beaded  with  sinter 
pearls.  Some  of  the  geyser  craters  are  mas 
sive  and  picturesque,  like  ruined  castles  or  old 
burned-out  sequoia  stumps,  and  are  adorned 
on  a  grand  scale  with  outbulging,  cauliflower- 
like  formations.  From  these  as  centers  the 
silex  pavements  slope  gently  away  in  thin, 
crusty,  overlapping  layers,  slightly  inter 
rupted  hi  some  places  by  low  terraces.  Or,  as 
hi  the  case  of  the  Mammoth  Hot  Springs,  at 
the  north  end  of  the  park,  where  the  building 
waters  issue  from  the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  the 
deposits  form  a  succession  of  higher  and 
broader  terraces  of  white  travertine  tinged 
with  purple,  like  the  famous  Pink  Terrace  at 
Rotomahana,  New  Zealand,  draped  in  front 
with  clustering  stalactites,  each  terrace  having 
a  pool  of  indescribably  beautiful  water  upon  it 

52 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

in  a  basin  with  a  raised  rim  that  glistens  with 
conf ervae,  —  the  whole,  when  viewed  at  a  dis 
tance  of  a  mile  or  two,  looking  like  a  broad, 
massive  cascade  pouring  over  shelving  rocks 
in  snowy  purpled  foam. 

The  stones  of  this  divine  masonry,  invisible 
particles  of  lime  or  silex,  mined  in  quarries  no 
eye  has  seen,  go  to  their  appointed  places  in  gen 
tle,  tinkling,  transparent  currents  or  through 
the  dashing  turmoil  of  floods,  as  surely  guided 
as  the  sap  of  plants  streaming  into  bole  and 
branch,  leaf  and  flower.  And  thus  from  cen 
tury  to  century  this  beauty-work  has  gone  on 
and  is  going  on. 

Passing  through  many  a  mile  of  pine  and 
spruce  woods,  toward  the  center  of  the  park 
you  come  to  the  famous  Yellowstone  Lake. 
It  is  about  twenty  miles  long  and  fifteen  wide, 
and  lies  at  a  height  of  nearly  eight  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  amid  dense 
black  forests  and  snowy  mountains.  Around 
its  winding,  wavering  shores,  closely  forested 
and  picturesquely  varied  with  promontories 
and  bays,  the  distance  is  more  than  one  hun 
dred  miles.  It  is  not  very  deep,  only  from  two 
hundred  to  three  hundred  feet,  and  contains 
less  water  than  the  celebrated  Lake  Tahoe  of 
the  California  Sierra,  which  is  nearly  the  same 
size,  lies  at  a  height  of  sixty-four  hundred  feet, 
53 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  is  over  sixteen  hundred  feet  deep.  But 
no  other  lake  in  North  America  of  equal  area 
lies  so  high  as  the  Yellowstone,  or  gives  birth 
to  so  noble  a  river.  The  terraces  around  its 
shores  show  that  at  the  close  of  the  glacial 
period  its  surface  was  about  one  hundred  and 
sixty  feet  higher  than  it  is  now,  and  its  area 
nearly  twice  as  great. 

It  is  full  of  trout,  and  a  vast  multitude  of 
birds  —  swans,  pelicans,  geese,  ducks,  cranes, 
herons,  curlews,  plovers,  snipe  —  feed  in  it 
and  upon  its  shores;  and  many  forest  animals 
come  out  of  the  woods,  and  wade  a  little  way 
in  shallow,  sandy  places  to  drink  and  look 
about  them,  and  cool  themselves  in  the  free 
flowing  breezes. 

In  calm  weather  it  is  a  magnificent  mirror 
for  the  woods  and  mountains  and  sky,  now 
pattered  with  hail  and  ram,  now  roughened 
with  sudden  storms  that  send  waves  to  fringe 
the  shores  and  wash  its  border  of  gravel  and 
sand.  The  Absaroka  Mountains  and  the  Wind 
River.  Plateau  on  the  east  and  south  pour 
their  gathered  waters  into  it,  and  the  river  is 
sues  from  the  north  side  in  a  broad,  smooth, 
stately  current,  silently  gliding  with  such 
serene  majesty  that  one  fancies  it  knows  the 
vast  journey  of  four  thousand  miles  that  lies 
before  it,  and  the  work  it  has  to  do.  For  the 

54 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

first  twenty  miles  its  course  is  in  a  level,  sunny 
valley  lightly  fringed  with  trees,  through 
which  it  flows  in  silvery  reaches  stirred  into 
spangles  here  and  there  by  ducks  and  leaping 
trout,  making  no  sound  save  a  low  whispering 
among  the  pebbles  and  the  dipping  willows  and 
sedges  of  its  banks.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  pre 
paring  for  hard  work,  it  rushes  eagerly,  impetu 
ously  forward  rejoicing  in  its  strength,  breaks 
into  foam-bloom,  and  goes  thundering  down 
into  the  Grand  Canon  in  two  magnificent  falls, 
one  hundred  and  three  hundred  feet  high. 

The  canon  is  so  tremendously  wild  and  im 
pressive  that  even  these  great  falls  cannot  hold 
your  attention.  It  is  about  twenty  miles  long 
and  a  thousand  feet  deep,  —  a  weird,  un 
earthly-looking  gorge  of  jagged,  fantastic 
architecture,  and  most  brilliantly  colored. 
Here  the  Washburn  range,  forming  the  north 
ern  rim  of  the  Yellowstone  basin,  made  up 
mostly  of  beds  of  rhyolite  decomposed  by  the 
action  of  thermal  waters,  has  been  cut  through 
and  laid  open  to  view  by  the  river;  and  a 
famous  section  it  has  made.  It  is  not  the 
depth  or  the  shape  of  the  canon,  nor  the  water 
fall,  nor  the  green  and  gray  river  chanting  its 
brave  song  as  it  goes  foaming  on  its  way,  that 
most  impresses  the  observer,  but  the  colors 
of  the  decomposed  volcanic  rocks.  With  few 

55 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

exceptions,  the  traveler  in  strange  lands  finds 
that,  however  much  the  scenery  and  vegeta 
tion  in  different  countries  may  change,  Mother 
Earth  is  ever  familiar  and  the  same.  But  here 
the  very  ground  is  changed,  as  if  belonging 
to  some  other  world.  The  walls  of  the  canon 
from  top  to  bottom  burn  in  a  perfect  glory  of 
color,  confounding  and  dazzling  when  the  sun 
is  shining,  —  white,  yellow,  green,  blue,  ver 
milion,  and  various  other  shades  of  red  in 
definitely  blending.  All  the  earth  hereabouts 
seems  to  be  paint.  Millions  of  tons  of  it  lie  in 
sight,  exposed  to  wind  and  weather  as  if  of 
no  account,  yet  marvelously  fresh  and  bright, 
fast  colors  not  to  be  washed  out  or  bleached 
out  by  either  sunshine  or  storms.  The  effect 
is  so  novel  and  awful,  we  imagine  that  even  a 
river  might  be  afraid  to  enter  such  a  place. 
But  the  rich  and  gentle  beauty  of  the  vegeta 
tion  is  reassuring.  The  lovely  Linncea  borealis 
hangs  her  twin  bells  over  the  brink  of  the  cliffs, 
forests  and  gardens  extend  their  treasures  hi 
smiling  confidence  on  either  side,  nuts  and 
berries  ripen  well  whatever  may  be  going 
on  below;  blind  fears  vanish,  and  the  grand 
gorge  seems  a  kindly,  beautiful  part  of  the 
general  harmony,  full  of  peace  and  joy  and 
good  will. 

The  park  is  easy  of  access.    Locomotives 

56 


YELLOWSTONE  ^NATIONAL  PARK 

drag  you  to  its  northern  boundary  at.  Cinna 
bar,  and  horses  and  guides  do  the  rest.  From 
Cinnabar  you  will  be  whirled  in  coaches  along 
the  foaming  Gardiner  River  to  Mammoth 
Hot  Springs;  thence  through  woods  and  mead 
ows,  gulches  and  ravines  along  branches  of 
the  Upper  Gallatin,  Madison,  and  Firehole 
rivers  to  the  main  geyser  basins;  thence  over 
the  Continental  Divide  and  back  again,  up 
and  down  through  dense  pine,  spruce,  and  fir 
woods  to  the  magnificent  Yellowstone  Lake, 
along  its  northern  shore  to  the  outlet,  down 
the  river  to  the  falls  and  Grand  Canon,  and 
thence  back  through  the  woods  to  Mammoth 
Hot  Springs  and  Cinnabar;  stopping  here  and 
there  at  the  so-called  points  of  interest  among 
the  geysers,  springs,  paint-pots,  mud  volca 
noes,  etc.,  where  you  will  be  allowed  a  few 
minutes  or  hours  to  saunter  over  the  sinter 
pavements,  watch  the  play  of  a  few  of  the 
geysers,  and  peer  into  some  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  and  terrible  of  the  craters  and  pools. 
These  wonders  you  will  enjoy,  and  also  the 
views  of  the  mountains,  especially  the  Galla 
tin  and  Absaroka  ranges,  the  long,  willowy 
glacier  and  beaver  meadows,  the  beds  of  vio 
lets,  gentians,  phloxes,  asters,  phacelias,  gol- 
denrods,  eriogonums,  and  many  other  flowers, 
some  species  giving  color  to  whole  meadows 

57 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  hillsides.  And  you  will  enjoy  your  short 
views  of  the  great  lake  and  river  and  canon. 
No  scalping  Indians  will  you  see.  The  Black- 
feet  and  Bannocks  that  once  roamed  here 
are  gone;  so  are  the  old  beaver-catchers,  the 
Coulters  and  Bridgers,  with  all  their  attractive 
buckskin  and  romance.  There  are  several 
bands  of  buffaloes  in  the  park,  but  you  will 
not  thus  cheaply  in  tourist  fashion  see  them 
nor  many  of  the  other  large  animals  hidden 
in  the  wilderness.  The  song-birds,  too,  keep 
mostly  out  of  sight  of  the  rushing  tourist, 
though  off  the  roads  thrushes,  warblers,  orioles, 
grosbeaks,  etc.,  keep  the  air  sweet  and  merry. 
Perhaps  in  passing  rapids  and  falls  you  may 
catch  glimpses  of  the  water-ouzel,  but  in  the 
whirling  noise  you  will  not  hear  his  song.  For 
tunately,  no  road  noise  frightens  the  Douglas 
squirrel,  and  his  merry  play  and  gossip  will 
amuse  you  all  through  the  woods.  Here  and 
there  a  deer  may  be  seen  crossing  the  road, 
or  a  bear.  Most  likely,  however,  the  only  bears 
you  will  see  are  the  half  tame  ones  that  go  to 
the  hotels  every  night  for  dinner-table  scraps, 
—  yeast-powder  biscuit,  Chicago  canned  stuff, 
mixed  pickles,  and  beefsteaks  that  have  proved 
too  tough  for  the  tourists. 

Among  the  gains  of  a  coach  trip  are  the  ac 
quaintances  made  and  the  fresh  views  into  hu- 

58 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

man  nature;  for  the  wilderness  is  a  shrewd 
touchstone,  even  thus  lightly  approached,  and 
brings  many  a  curious  trait  to  view.  Setting 
out,  the  driver  cracks  his  whip,  and  the  four 
horses  go  off  at  half  gallop,  half  trot,  in  trained, 
showy  style,  until  out  of  sight  of  the  hotel.  The 
coach  is  crowded,  old  and  young  side  by  side, 
blooming  and  fading,  full  of  hope  and  fun  and 
care.  Some  look  at  the  scenery  or  the  horses, 
and  all  ask  questions,  an  odd  mixed  lot  of  them : 
"Where  is  the  umbrella?  WTiat  is  the  name  of 
that  blue  flower  over  there?  Are  you  sure  the 
little  bag  is  aboard?  Is  that  hollow  yonder  a 
crater?  How  is  your  throat  this  morning? 
How  high  did  you  say  the  geysers  spout?  How 
does  the  elevation  affect  your  head?  Is  that  a 
geyser  reeking  over  there  in  the  rocks,  or  only 
a  hot  spring?"  A  long  ascent  is  made,  the 
solemn  mountains  come  to  view,  small  cares 
are  quenched,  and  all  become  natural  and  si 
lent,  save  perhaps  some  unfortunate  expounder 
who  has  been  reading  guidebook  geology, 
and  rumbles  forth  foggy  subsidences  and  up 
heavals  until  he  is  in  danger  of  being  heaved 
overboard.  The  driver  will  give  you  the  names 
of  the  peaks  and  meadows  and  streams  as  you 
come  to  them,  call  attention  to  the  glass  road, 
tell  how  hard  it  was  to  build,  —  how  the  ob 
sidian  cliffs  naturally  pushed  the  surveyor's 

59 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

lines  to  the  right,  and  the  industrious  beavers, 
by  flooding  the  valley  in  front  of  the  cliff, 
pushed  them  to  the  left. 

Geysers,  however,  are  the  main  objects,  and 
as  soon  as  they  come  in  sight  other  wonders 
are  forgotten.  All  gather  around  the  crater  of 
the  one  that  is  expected  to  play  first.  During 
the  eruptions  of  the  smaller  geysers,  such  as 
the  Beehive  and  Old  Faithful,  though  a  lit 
tle  frightened  at  first,  all  welcome  the  glori 
ous  show  with  enthusiasm,  and  shout,  "Oh, 
how  wonderful,  beautiful,  splendid,  majestic!" 
Some  venture  near  enough  to  stroke  the  column 
with  a  stick,  as  if  it  were  a  stone  pillar  or  a 
tree,  so  firm  and  substantial  and  permanent 
it  seems.  While  tourists  wait  around  a  large 
geyser,  such  as  the  Castle  or  the  Giant,  there 
is  a  chatter  of  small  talk  in  anything  but  sol 
emn  mood;  and  during  the  intervals  between 
the  preliminary  splashes  and  upheavals  some 
adventurer  occasionally  looks  down  the  throat 
of  the  crater,  admiring  the  silex  formations  and 
wondering  whether  Hades  is  as  beautiful.  But 
when,  with  awful  uproar  as  if  avalanches  were 
falling  and  storms  thundering  in  the  depths, 
the  tremendous  outburst  begins,  all  run  away 
to  a  safe  distance,  and  look  on,  awe-stricken 
and  silent,  in  devout,  worshiping  wonder. 

The  largest  and  one  of  the  most  wonderfully 

60 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

beautiful  of  the  springs  is  the  Prismatic,  which 
the  guide  will  be  sure  to  show  you.  With  a  cir 
cumference  of  three  hundred  yards,  it  is  more 
like  a  lake  than  a  spring.  The  water  is  pure 
deep  blue  in  the  center,  fading  to  green  on  the 
edges,  and  its  basin  and  the  slightly  terraced 
pavement  about  it  are  astonishingly  bright 
and  varied  in  color.  This  one  of  the  multitude 
of  Yellowstone  fountains  is  of  itself  object 
enough  for  a  trip  across  the  continent.  No 
wonder  that  so  many  fine  myths  have  origi 
nated  in  springs;  that  so  many  fountains  were 
held  sacred  in  the  youth  of  the  world,  and 
had  miraculous  virtues  ascribed  to  them.  Even 
in  these  cold,  doubting,  questioning,  scientific 
times  many  of  the  Yellowstone  fountains  seem 
able  to  work  miracles.  Near  the  Prismatic 
Spring  is  the  great  Excelsior  Geyser,  which  is 
said  to  throw  a  column  of  boiling  water  sixty 
to  seventy  feet  in  diameter  to  a  height  of  from 
fifty  to  three  hundred  feet,  at  irregular  periods. 
This  is  the  greatest  of  all  the  geysers  yet  dis 
covered  anywhere.  The  Firehole  River,  which 
sweeps  past  it,  is,  at  ordinary  stages,  a  stream 
about  one  hundred  yards  wide  and  three  feet 
deep;  but  when  the  geyser  is  in  eruption,  so 
great  is  the  quantity  of  water  discharged  that 
the  volume  of  the  river  is  doubled,  and  it  is 
rendered  too  hot  and  rapid  to  be  forded. 

61 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Geysers  are  found  in  many  other  volcanic 
regions,  —  in  Iceland,  New  Zealand,  Japan, 
the  Himalayas,  the  Eastern  Archipelago, 
Sou tli  America,  the  Azores,  and  elsewhere; 
but  only  in  Iceland,  New  Zealand,  and  this 
Rocky  Mountain  park  do  they  display  their 
grandest  forms,  and  of  these  three  famous 
regions  the  Yellowstone  is  easily  first,  both  in 
the  number  and  in  the  size  of  its  geysers.  The 
greatest  height  of  the  column  of  the  Great 
Geyser  of  Iceland  actually  measured  was  two 
hundred  and  twelve  feet,  and  of  the  Strokhr 
one  hundred  and  sixty-two  feet. 

In  New  Zealand,  the  Te  Pueia  at  Lake 
Taupo,  the  Waikite  at  Rotorna,  and  two 
others  are  said  to  lift  their  waters  occasionally 
to  a  height  of  one  hundred  feet,  while  the  cele 
brated  Te  Tarata  at  Rotomahana  sometimes 
lifts  a  boiling  column  twenty  feet  in  diameter 
to  a  height  of  sixty  feet.  But  all  these  are 
far  surpassed  by  the  Excelsior.  Few  tourists, 
however,  will  see  the  Excelsior  in  action,  or 
a  thousand  other  interesting  features  of  the 
park  that  lie  beyond  the  wagon-roads  and 
the  hotels.  The  regular  trips  —  from  three 
to  five  days  —  are  too  short.  Nothing  can 
be  done  well  at  a  speed  of  forty  miles  a  day. 
The  multitude  of  mixed,  novel  impressions 
rapidly  piled  on  one  another  make  only  a 

02 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

dreamy,  bewildering,  swirling  blur,  most  of 
which  is  unrememberable.  Far  more  time 
should  be  taken.  Walk  away  quietly  in  any 
direction  and  taste  the  freedom  of  the  moun 
taineer.  Camp  out  among  the  grass  and  gen 
tians  of  glacier  meadows,  in  craggy  garden 
nooks  full  of  Nature's  darlings.  Climb  the 
mountains  and  get  their  good  tidings.  Na 
ture's  peace  will  flow  into  you  as  sunshine 
flows  into  trees.  The  winds  will  blow  their 
own  freshness  into  you,  and  the  storms  their 
energy,  while  cares  will  drop  off  like  autumn 
leaves.  As  age  comes  on,  one  source  of  enjoy 
ment  after  another  is  closed,  but  Nature's 
sources  never  fail.  Like  a  generous  host,  she 
offers  here  brimming  cups  in  endless  variety, 
served  in  a  grand  hall,  the  sky  its  ceiling,  the 
mountains  its  walls,  decorated  with  glorious 
paintings  and  enlivened  with  bands  of  music 
ever  playing.  The  petty  discomforts  that  be 
set  the  awkward  guest,  the  unskilled  camper, 
are  quickly  forgotten,  while  all  that  is  precious 
remains.  Fears  vanish  as  soon  as  one  is  fairly 
free  in  the  wilderness. 

Most  of  the  dangers  that  haunt  the  unsea 
soned  citizen  are  imaginary;  the  real  ones  are 
perhaps  too  few  rather  than  too  many  for  his 
good.  The  bears  that  always  seem  to  spring 
up  thick  as  trees,  in  fighting,  devouring  atti- 
63 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tudes  before  the  frightened  tourist  whenever  a 
camping  trip  is  proposed,  are  gentle  now,  find 
ing  they  are  no  longer  likely  to  be  shot;  and 
rattlesnakes,  the  other  big  irrational  dread  of 
over-civilized  people,  are  scarce  here,  for  most 
of  the  park  lies  above  the  snake-line.  Poor 
creatures,  loved  only  by  their  Maker,  they  are 
timid  and  bashful,  as  mountaineers  know;  and 
though  perhaps  not  possessed  of  much  of  that 
charity  that  suffers  long  and  is  kind,  seldom, 
either  by  mistake  or  by  mishaps,  do  harm  to 
any  one.  Certainly  they  cause  not  the  hun 
dredth  part  of  the  pain  and  death  that  follow 
the  footsteps  of  the  admired  Rocky  Moun 
tain  trapper.  Nevertheless,  again  and  again,  in 
season  and  out  of  season,  the  question  comes 
up,  "What  are  rattlesnakes  good  for?"  As 
if  nothing  that  does  not  obviously  make  for 
the  benefit  of  man  had  any  right  to  exist;  as 
if  our  ways  were  God's  ways.  Long  ago,  an 
Indian  to  whom  a  French  traveler  put  this  old 
question  replied  that  their  tails  were  good  for 
toothache,  and  their  heads  for  fever.  Anyhow, 
they  are  all,  head  and  tail,  good  for  them 
selves,  and  we  need  not  begrudge  them  their 
share  of  life. 

Fear  nothing.  No  town  park  you  have  been 
accustomed  to  saunter  in  is  so  free  from  danger 
as  the  Yellowstone.  It  is  a  hard  place  to  leave. 

64 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

Even  its  names  in  your  guidebook  are  attrac 
tive,  and  should  draw  you  far  from  wagon- 
roads,  —  all  save  the  early  ones,  derived  from 
the  infernal  regions:  Hell  Roaring  River,  Hell 
Broth  Springs,  The  Devil's  Caldron,  etc.  In 
deed,  the  whole  region  was  at  first  called  Coul 
ter's  Hell,  from  the  fiery  brimstone  stories  told 
by  trapper  Coulter,  who  left  the  Lewis  and 
Clark  expedition  and  wandered  through  the 
park,  in  the  year  1807,  with  a  band  of  Ban 
nock  Indians.  The  later  names,  many  of 
whichtwe  owe  to  Mr.  Arnold  Hague  of  the 
U.S.  Geological  Survey,  are  so  telling  and 
exhilarating  that  they  set  our  pulses  dancing 
and  make  us  begin  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
excursions  ere  they  are  commenced.  Three 
River  Peak,  Two  Ocean  Pass,  Continental 
Divide,  are  capital  geographical  descriptions, 
suggesting  thousands  of  miles  of  rejoicing 
streams  and  all  that  belongs  to  them.  Big 
Horn  Pass,  Bison  Peak,  Big  Game  Ridge, 
bring  brave  mountain  animals  to  mind.  Birch 
Hills,  Garnet  Hills,  Amethyst  Mountain, 
Storm  Peak,  Electric  Peak,  Roaring  Moun 
tain,  are  bright,  bracing  names.  Wapiti,  Bea 
ver,  Tern;  and  Swan  lakes  conjure  up  fine 
pictures,  and  so  also  do  Osprey  and  Ouzel  falls. 
Antelope  Creek,  Otter,  Mink,  and  Grayling 
creeks,  Geode,  Jasper,  Opal,  Carnelian,  and 

65 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Chalcedony  creeks,  are  lively  and  sparkling 
names  that  help  the  streams  to  shine;  and 
Azalea,  Stellaria,  Arnica,  Aster,  and  Phlox 
creeks,  what  pictures  these  bring  up!  Violet, 
Morning  Mist,  Hygeia,  Beryl,  Vermilion,  and 
Indigo  springs,  and  many  beside,  give  us  vi 
sions  of  fountains  more  beautifully  arrayed 
than  Solomon  in  all  his  purple  and  golden 
glory.  All  these  and  a  host  of  others  call  you 
to  camp.  You  may  be  a  little  cold  some  nights 
on  mountain  tops  above  the  timber-line,  but 
you  will  see  the  stars,  and  by  and  by  you  can 
sleep  enough  in  your  town  bed,  or  at  least  in 
your  grave.  Keep  awake  while  you  may  in 
mountain  mansions  so  rare. 

If  you  are  not  very  strong,  try  to  climb 
Electric  Peak  when  a  big  bossy,  well-charged 
thunder-cloud  is  on  it,  to  breathe  the  ozone 
set  free,  and  get  yourself  kindly  shaken  and 
shocked.  You  are  sure  to  be  lost  in  wonder  and 
praise,  and  every  hair  of  your  head  will  stand 
up  and  hum  and  sing  like  an  enthusiastic  con 
gregation. 

After  this  reviving  experience,  you  should 
take  a  look  into  a  few  of  the  tertiary  volumes 
of  the  grand  geological  library  of  'the  park, 
and  see  how  God  writes  history.  No  technical 
knowledge  is  required;  only  a  calm  day  and 
a  calm  mind.  Perhaps  nowhere  else  in  the 
66 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

Rocky  Mountains  have  the  volcanic  forces 
been  so  busy.  More  than  ten  thousand  square 
miles  hereabouts  have  been  covered  to  a  depth 
of  at  least  five  thousand  feet  with  material 
spouted  from  chasms  and  craters  during  the 
tertiary  period,  forming  broad  sheets  of  ba 
salt,  andesite,  rhyolite,  etc.,  and  marvelous 
masses  of  ashes,  sand,  cinders,  and  stones  now 
consolidated  into  conglomerates,  charged  with 
the  remains  of  plants  and  animals  that  lived 
in  the  calm,  genial  periods  that  separated  the 
volcanic  outbursts. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  and  telling  of 
these  rocks,  to  the  hasty  tourist,  are  those  that 
make  up  the  mass  of  Amethyst  Mountain. 
On  its  north  side  it  presents  a  section  two 
thousand  feet  high  of  roughly  stratified  beds 
of  sand,  ashes,  and  conglomerates  coarse  and 
fine,  forming  the  untrimmed  edges  of  a  won 
derful  set  of  volumes  lying  on  their  sides,  — 
books  a  million  years  old,  well  bound,  miles  in 
size,  with  full-page  illustrations.  On  the  ledges 
of  this  one  section  we  see  trunks  and  stumps 
of  fifteen  or  twenty  ancient  forests  ranged  one 
above  another,  standing  where  they  grew,  or 
prostrate  and  broken  like  the  pillars  of  ruined 
temples  in  desert  sands,  —  a  forest  fifteen  or 
twenty  stories  high,  the  roots  of  each  spread 
above  the  tops  of  the  next  beneath  it,  telling 

67 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

wonderful  tales  of  the  bygone  centuries,  with 
their  winters  and  summers,  growth  and  death, 
fire,  ice,  and  flood. 

There  were  giants  in  those  days.  The  largest 
of  the  standing  opal  and  agate  stumps  and 
prostrate  sections  of  the  trunks  are  from  two 
or  three  to  fifty  feet  in  height  or  length,  and 
from  five  to  ten  feet  in  diameter;  and  so  per 
fect  is  the  petrifaction  that  the  annual  rings 
and  ducts  are  clearer  and  more  easily  counted 
than  those  of  living  trees,  centuries  of  burial 
having  brightened  the  records  instead  of  blur 
ring  them.  They  show  that  the  winters  of  the 
tertiary  period  gave  as  decided  a  check  to 
vegetable  growth  as  do  those  of  the  present 
tune.  Some  trees  favorably  located  grew  rap 
idly;  increasing  twenty  inches  in  diameter  in 
as  many  years,  while  others  of  the  same  spe 
cies,  on  poorer  soil  or  overshadowed,  increased 
only  two  or  three  inches  in  the  same  time. 

Among  the  roots  and  stumps  on  the  old 
forest  floors  we  find  the  remains-  of  ferns  and 
bushes,  and  the  seeds  and  leaves  of  trees  like 
those  now  growing  on  the  southern  Allegha- 
nies,  —  such  as  magnolia,  sassafras,  laurel, 
linden,  persimmon,  ash,  alder,  dogwood.  Studj*- 
ing  the  lowest  of  these  forests,  the  soil  it  grew 
on  and  the  deposits  it  is  buried  in,  we  see 
that  it  was  rich  in  species,  and  flourished  in  a 
68 


YELLOWSTONE   NATIONAL  PARK 

genial,  sunny  climate.  When  its  stately  trees 
were  in  their  glory,  volcanic  fires  broke  forth 
from  chasms  and  craters,  like  larger  gey 
sers,  spouting  ashes,  cinders,  stones,  and  mud, 
which  fell  on  the  doomed  forest  like  hail  and 
snow;  sifting,  hurtling  through  the  leaves 
and  branches,  choking  the  streams,  covering 
the  ground,  crushing  bushes  and  ferns,  rap 
idly  deepening,  packing  around  the  trees  and 
breaking  them,  rising  higher  until  the  top 
most  boughs  of  the  giants  were  buried,  leaving 
not  a  leaf  or  twig  hi  sight,  so  complete  was  the 
desolation.  At  last  the  volcanic  storm  began 
to  abate,  the  fiery  soil  settled;  mud  floods  and 
boulder  floods  passed  over  it,  enriching  it,  cool 
ing  it;  rains  fell  and  mellow  sunshine,  and 
it  became  fertile  and  ready  for  another  crop. 
Birds,  and  the  winds,  and  roaming  animals 
brought  seeds  from  more  fortunate  woods, 
and  a  new  forest  grew'  up  on  the  top  of  the 
buried  one.  Centuries  of  genial  growing  sea 
sons  passed.  The  seedling  trees  became  giants, 
and  with  strong  outreaching  branches  spread 
a  leafy  canopy  over  the  gray  land. 

The  sleeping  subterranean  fires  again  awake 
and  shake  the  mountains,  and  every  leaf  trem 
bles.  The  old  craters,  with  perhaps  new  ones, 
are  opened,  and  immense  quantities  of  ashes, 
pumice,  and  cinders  are  again  thrown  into  the 

69 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

sky.  The  sun,  shorn  of  his  beams,  glows  like  a 
dull  red  ball,  until  hidden  in  sulphurous  clouds. 
Volcanic  snow,  hail,  and  floods  fall  on  the  new 
forest,  burying  it  alive,  like  the  one  beneath  its 
roots.  Then  come  another  noisy  band  of  mud 
floods  and  boulder  floods,  mixing,  settling, 
enriching  the  new  ground,  more  seeds,  quick 
ening  sunshine  and  showers;  and  a  third  noble 
magnolia  forest  is  carefully  raised  on  the  top 
of  the  second.  And  so  on.  Forest  was  planted 
above  forest  and  destroyed,  as  if  Nature  were 
ever  repenting,  undoing  the  work  she  had  so 
industriously  done,  and  burying  it. 

Of  course  this  destruction  was  creation, 
progress  in  the  march  of  beauty  through 
death.  How  quickly  these  old  monuments 
excite  and  hold  the  imagination!  We  see  the 
old  stone  stumps  budding  and  blossoming  and 
waving  in  the  wind  as  magnificent  trees,  stand 
ing  shoulder  to  shoulder,  branches  interlacing 
in  grand  varied  round-headed  forests;  see  the 
sunshine  of  morning  and  evening  gilding  their 
mossy  trunks,  and  at  high  noon  spangling  on 
the  thick  glossy  leaves  of  the  magnolia,  filter 
ing  through  translucent  canopies  of  linden  and 
ash,  and  falling  in  mellow  patches  on  the  ferny 
floor;  see  the  shining  after  ram,  breathe  the 
exhaling  fragrance,  and  hear  the  winds  and 
birds  and  the  murmur  of  brooks  and  insects. 

70 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

We  watch  them  from  season  to  season ;  see  the 
swelling  buds  when  the  sap  begins  to  flow  in 
the  spring,  the  opening  leaves  and  blossoms, 
the  ripening  of  summer  fruits,  the  colors  of 
autumn,  and  the  maze  of  leafless  branches  and 
sprays  in  winter;  and  we  see  the  sudden  on- 
come  of  the  storms  that  overwhelmed  them. 

One  calm  morning  at  sunrise  I  saw  the  oaks 
and  pines  in  Yosemite  Valley  shaken  by  an 
earthquake,  their  tops  swishing  back  and 
forth,  and  every  branch  and  needle  shudder 
ing  as  if  in  distress  like  the  frightened  scream 
ing  birds.  One  many  imagine  the  trembling, 
rocking,  tumultuous  waving  of  those  ancient 
Yellowstone  woods,  and  the  terror  of  their 
inhabitants  when  the  first  foreboding  shocks 
were  felt,  the  sky  grew  dark,  and  rock-laden 
floods  began  to  roar.  But  though  they  were 
close  pressed  and  buried,  cut  off  from  sun 
and  wind,  all  their  happy  leaf-fluttering  and 
waving  done,  other  currents  coursed  through 
them,  fondling  and  thrilling  every  fibre,  and 
beautiful  wood  was  replaced  by  beautiful 
stone.  Now  their  rocky  sepulchres  are  partly 
open,  and  show  forth  the  natural  beauty  of 
death. 

After  the  forest  times  and  fire  tunes  had 
passed  away,  and  the  volcanic  furnaces  were 
banked  and  held  in  abeyance,  another  great 

71 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

change  occurred.  The  glacial  winter  came  on. 
The  sky  was  again  darkened,  not  with  dust  and 
ashes,  but  with  snow  which  fell  in  glorious 
abundance,  piling  deeper,  deeper,  slipping 
from  the  overladen  heights  in  booming  ava 
lanches,  compacting  into  glaciers,  that  flowed 
over  all  the  landscape,  wiping  off  forests, 
grinding,  sculpturing,  fashioning  the  compar 
atively  featureless  lava  beds  into  the  beau 
tiful  rhythm  of  hill  and  dale  and  ranges  of 
mountains  we  behold  to-day;  forming  basins 
for  lakes,  channels  for  streams,  new  soils  for 
forests,  gardens,  and  meadows.  While  this  ice- 
work  was  going  on,  the  slumbering  volcanic 
fires  were  boiling  the  subterranean  waters, 
and  with  curious  chemistry  decomposing  the 
rocks,  making  beauty  in  the  darkness;  these 
forces,  seemingly  antagonistic,  working  har 
moniously  together.  How  wild  their  meetings 
on  the  surface  were  we  may  imagine.  When  the 
glacier  period  began,  geysers  and  hot  springs 
were  playing  in  grander  volume,  it  may  be, 
than  those  of  to-day.  The  glaciers  flowed 
over  them  while  they  spouted  and  thundered, 
carrying  away  their  fine  sinter  and  travertine 
structures,  and  shortening  their  mysterious 
channels. 

The  soils  made  in  the  down-grinding  re 
quired  to  bring  the  present  features  of  the 

72 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

landscape  into  relief  are  possibly  no  better 
than  were  some  of  the  old  volcanic  soils  that 
were  carried  away,  and  which,  as  we  have 
seen,  nourished  magnificent  forests,  but  the 
glacial  landscapes  are  incomparably  more 
beautiful  than  the  old  volcanic  ones  were. 
The  glacial  winter  has  passed  away,  like  the 
ancient  summers  and  fire  periods,  though  in 
the  chronology  of  the  geologist  all  these  tunes 
are  recent.  Only  small  residual  glaciers  on  the 
cool  northern  slopes  of  the  highest  mountains 
are  left  of  the  vast  all-embracing  ice-mantle, 
as  solfataras  and  geysers  are  all  that  are  left 
of  the  ancient  volcanoes. 

Now  the  post-glacial  agents  are  at  work  on 
the  grand  old  palimpsest  of  the  park  region, 
inscribing  new  characters;  but  still  in  its  main 
telling  features  it  remains  distinctly  glacial. 
The  moraine  soils  are  being  leveled,  sorted, 
refined,  re-formed,  and  covered  with  vegeta.- 
tion;  the  polished  pavements  and  scoring  and 
other  superficial  glacial  inscriptions  on  the 
crumbling  lavas  are  being  rapidly  obliterated; 
gorges  are  being  cut  in  the  decomposed  rhyo- 
lites  and  loose  conglomerates,  and  turrets  and 
pinnacles  seem  to  be  springing  up  like  growing 
trees;  while  the  geysers  are  depositing  miles 
of  sinter  and  travertine.  Nevertheless,  the  ice- 
work  is  scarce  blurred  as  yet.  These  later  ef- 

73 


NATIONAL  PARKS 

fects  are  only  spots  and  wrinkles  on  the  grand 
glacial  countenance  of  the  park. 

Perhaps  you  have  already  said  that  you 
have  seen  enough  for  a  lifetime.  But  before 
you  go  away  you  should  spend  at  least  one 
day  and  a  night  on  a  mountain  top,  for  a  last 
general,  calming,  settling  view.  Mount  Wash- 
burn  is  a  good  one  for  the  purpose,  because  it 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  park,  is  unencum 
bered  with  other  peaks,  and  is  so  easy  of  access 
that  the  climb  to  its  summit  is  only  a  saunter. 
First  your  eye  goes  roving  around  the  moun 
tain  rim  amid  the  hundreds  of  peaks:  some 
with  plain  flowing  skirts,  others  abruptly  pre 
cipitous  and  defended  by  sheer  battlemented 
escarpments;  flat-topped  or  round;  heaving  like 
sea-waves  or  spired  and  turret ed  like  Gothic 
cathedrals;  streaked  with  snow  hi  the  ravines, 
and  darkened  with  files  of  adventurous  trees 
climbing  the  ridges.  The  nearer  peaks  are 
perchance  clad  hi  sapphire  blue,  others  far  off 
in  creamy  white.  In  the  broad  glare  of  noon 
they  seem  to  shrink  and  crouch  to  less  than 
hah0  their  real  stature,  and  grow  dull  and  un 
communicative,  —  mere  dead,  draggled  heaps 
of  waste  ashes  and  stone,  giving  no  hint  of  the 
multitude  of  animals  enjoying  life  in  their  fast 
nesses,  or  of  the  bright  bloom-bordered  streams 
and  lakes.  But  when  storms  blow  they  awake 
74 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

and  arise,  wearing  robes  of  cloud  and  mist  in 
majestic  speaking  attitudes  like  gods.  In  the 
color  glory  of  morning  and  evening  they  be 
come  still  more  impressive;  steeped  in  the 
divine  light  of  the  alpenglow  their  earthiness 
disappears,  and,  blending  with  the  heavens, 
they  seem  neither  high  nor  low. 

Over  all  the  central  plateau,  which  from  here 
seems  level,  and  over  the  foothills  and  lower 
slopes  of  the  mountains,  the  forest  extends  like 
a  black  uniform  bed  of  weeds,  interrupted  only 
by  lakes  and  meadows  and  small  burned  spots 
called  parks,  —  all  of  them,  except  the  Yellow 
stone  Lake,  being  mere  dots  and  spangles  in 
general  views,  made  conspicuous  by  their  color 
and  brightness.  About  eighty-five  per  cent 
of  the  entire  area  of  the  park  is  covered  with 
trees,  mostly  the  indomitable  lodge-pole  pine 
(Pinus  contorta,  var.  Murrayana),  with  a  few 
patches  and  sprinklings  of  Douglas  spruce, 
Engelmann  spruce,  silver  fir  (Abies  lasiocarpa), 
Pinus  flexilis,  and  a  few  alders,  aspens,  and 
birches.  The  Douglas  spruce  is  found  only  on 
the  lowest  portions,  the  silver  fir  on  the  highest, 
and  the  Engelmann  spruce  on  the  dampest 
places,  best  defended  from  fire.  Some  fine 
specimens  of  the  flexilis  pine  are  growing  on 
the  margins  of  openings,  —  wide-branching, 
sturdy  trees,  as  broad  as  high,  with  trunks 

75 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

five  feet  in  diameter,  leafy  and  shady,  laden 
with  purple  cones  and  rose-colored  flowers. 
The  Engelmann  spruce  and  sub-alpine  silver  fir 
are  beautiful  and  notable  trees,  —  tall,  spiry, 
hardy,  frost  and  snow  defying,  and  widely 
distributed  over  the  West,  wherever  there  is 
a  mountain  to  climb  or  a  cold  moraine  slope 
to  cover.  But  neither  of  these  is  a  good  fire 
fighter.  With  rather  thin  bark,  and  scatter 
ing  their  seeds  every  year  as  soon  as  they  are 
ripe,  they  are  quickly  driven  out  of  fire-swept 
regions.  When  the  glaciers  were  melting,  these 
hardy  mountaineering  trees  were  probably 
among  the  first  to  arrive  on  the  new  moraine 
soil  beds;  but  as  the  plateau  became  drier  and 
fires  began  to  run,  they  were  driven  up  the 
mountains,  and  into  the  wet  spots  and  islands 
where  we  now  find  them,  leaving  nearly  all 
the  park  to  the  lodge-pole  pine,  which  though 
as  thin-skinned  as  they  and  as  easily  killed  by 
fire,  takes  pains  to  store  up  its  seeds  in  firmly 
closed  cones,  and  holds  them  from  three  to 
nine  years,  so  that,  let  the  fire  come  when  it 
may,  it  is  ready  to  die  and  ready  to  live  again 
hi  a  new  generation.  For  when  the  killing  fires 
have  devoured  the  leaves  and  thin  resinous 
bark,  many  of  the  cones,  only  scorched,  open 
as  soon  as  the  smoke  clears  away;  the  hoarded 
store  of  seeds  is  sown  broadcast  on  the  cleared 
76 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

ground,  and  a  new  growth  immediately  springs 
up  triumphant  out  of  the  ashes.  Therefore, 
this  tree  not  only  holds  its  ground,  but  extends 
its  conquests  farther  after  every  fire.  Thus 
the  evenness  and  closeness  of  its  growth  are 
accounted  for.  In  one  part  of  the  forest  that 
I  examined,  the  growth  was  about  as  close  as 
a  cane-brake.  The  trees  were  from  four  to 
eight  niches  hi  diameter,  one  hundred  feet 
high,  and  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  years 
old.  The  lower  limbs  die  young  and  drop  off 
for  want  of  light.  Life  with  these  close-planted 
trees  is  a  race  for  light,  more  light,  and  so  they 
push  straight  for  the  sky.  Mowing  off  ten  feet 
from  the  top  of  the  forest  would  make  it  look 
like  a  crowded  mass  of  telegraph-poles;  for 
only  the  sunny  tops  are  leafy.  A  sapling  ten 
years  old,  growing  hi  the  sunshine,  has  as 
many  leaves  as  a  crowded  tree  one  or  two 
hundred  years  old.  As  fires  are  multiplied  and 
the  mountains  become  drier,  this  wonderful 
lodge-pole  pine  bids  fair  to  obtain  possession 
of  nearly  all  the  forest  ground  hi  the  West. 

How  still  the  woods  seem  from  here,  yet  how 
lively  a  stir  the  hidden  animals  are  making; 
digging,  gnawing,  biting,  eyes  shining,  at  work 
and  play,  getting  food,  rearing  young,  roving 
through  the  underbrush,  climbing  the  rocks, 
wading  solitary  marshes,  tracing  the  banks  of 
77 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  lakes  and  streams!  Insect  swarms  are 
dancing  in  the  sunbeams,  burrowing  in  the 
ground,  diving,  swimming,  —  a  cloud  of  wit 
nesses  telling  Nature's  joy.  The  plants  are  as 
busy  as  the  animals,  every  cell  in  a  swirl  of 
enjoyment,  humming  like  a  hive,  singing  the 
old  new  song  of  creation.  A  few  columns  and 
puffs  of  steam  are  seen  rising  above  the  tree- 
tops,  some  near,  but  most  of  them  far  off,  indi 
cating  geysers  and  hot  springs,  gentle-looking 
and  noiseless  as  downy  clouds,  softly  hinting 
the  reaction  going  on  between  the  surface  and 
the  hot  interior.  From  here  you  see  them 
better  than  when  you  are  standing  beside  them, 
frightened  and  confused,  regarding  them  as 
lawless  cataclysms.  The  shocks  and  outbursts 
of  earthquakes,  volcanoes,  geysers,  storms, 
the  pounding  of  waves,  the  uprush  of  sap  hi 
plants,  each  and  all  tell  the  orderly  love-beats 
of  Nature's  heart. 

Turning  to  the  eastward,  you  have  the 
Grand  Canon  and  reaches  of  the  river  in  full 
view;  and  yonder  to  the  southward  lies  the 
great  lake,  the  largest  and  most  important  of 
all  the  high  fountains  of  the  Missouri-Missis 
sippi,  and  the  last  to  be  discovered. 

In  the  year  1541,  when  De  Soto,  with  a  ro 
mantic  band  of  adventurers,  was  seeking  gold 
and  glory  and  the  fountain  of  youth,  he  found 

78 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

the  Mississippi  a  few  hundred  miles  above  its 
mouth,  and  made  his  grave  beneath  its  floods. 
La  Salle,  in  1682,  after  discovering  the  Ohio, 
one  of  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  branches 
of  the  Mississippi,  traced  the  latter  to  the  sea 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Illinois,  through  adven 
tures  and  privations  not  easily  realized  now. 
About  the  same  time  Joliet  and  Father  Mar- 
quette  reached  the  "Father  of  Waters"  by 
way  of  the  Wisconsin,  but  more  than  a  cen 
tury  passed  ere  its  highest  sources  hi  these 
mountains  were  seen.  The  advancing  stream 
of  civilization  has  ever  followed  its  guidance 
toward  the  west,  but  none  of  the  thousand 
tribes  of  Indians  living  on  its  banks  could  tell 
the  explorer  whence  it  came.  From  those  ro 
mantic  De  Soto  and  La  Salle  days  to  these 
tunes  of  locomotives  and  tourists,  how  much 
has  the  great  river  seen  and  done!  Great  as  it 
now  is,  and  still  growing  longer  through  the 
ground  of  its  delta  and  the  basins  of  receding 
glaciers  at  its  head,  it  was  immensely  broader 
toward  the  close  of  the  glacial  period,  when 
the  ice-mantle  of  the  mountains  was  melting : 
then  with  its  three  hundred  thousand  miles 
of  branches  outspread  over  the  plains  and  val 
leys  of  the  continent,  laden  with  fertile  mud, 
it  made  the  biggest  and  most  generous  bed 
of  soil  in  the  world. 

79 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Think  of  this  mighty  stream  springing  in 
the  first  place  in  vapor  from  the  sea,  flying  on 
the  wind,  alighting  on  the  mountains  in  hail 
and  snow  and  rain,  lingering  in  many  a  foun 
tain  feeding  the  trees  and  grass;  then  gather 
ing  its  scattered  waters,  gliding  from  its  noble 
lake,  and  going  back  home  to  the  sea,  singing 
all  the  way!  On  it  sweeps,  through  the  gates 
of  the  mountains,  across  the  vast  prairies  and 
plains,  through  many  a  wild,  gloomy  forest, 
cane-brake,  and  sunny  savanna;  from  glaciers 
and  snowbanks  and  pine  woods  to  warm  groves 
of  magnolia  and  palm;  geysers  dancing  at  its 
head  keeping  tune  with  the  sea-waves  at  its 
mouth;  roaring  and  gray  in  rapids,  booming 
in  broad,  bossy  falls,  murmuring,  gleaming  in 
long,  silvery  reaches,  swaying  now  hither,  now 
thither,  whirling,  bending  in  huge  doubling, 
eddying  folds,  serene,  majestic,  ungovernable, 
overflowing  all  its  metes  and  bounds,  fright 
ening  the  dwellers  upon  its  banks;  building, 
wasting,  uprooting,  planting;  engulfing  old  is 
lands  and  making  new  ones,  taking  away  fields 
and  towns  as  if  hi  sport,  carrying  canoes  and 
ships  of  commerce  in  the  midst  of  its  spoils 
and  drift,  fertilizing  the  continent  as  one  vast 
farm.  Then,  its  work  done,  it  gladly  vanishes 
hi  its  ocean  home,  welcomed  by  the  waiting 
waves. 

80 


YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

Thus  naturally,  standing  here  in  the  midst 
of  its  fountains,  we  trace  the  fortunes  of  the 
great  river.  And  how  much  more  comes  to 
mind  as  we  overlook  this  wonderful  wilderness! 
Fountains  of  the  Columbia  and  Colorado  lie 
before  us,  interlaced  with  those  of  the*Yellow- 
stone  and  Missouri,  and  fine  it  would  be  to  go 
with  them  to  the  Pacific;  but  the  sun  is  al 
ready  hi  the  west,  and  soon  our  day  will  be 
done. 

Yonder  is  Amethyst  Mountain,  and  other 
mountains  hardly  less  rich  in  old  forests,  which 
now  seem  to  spring  up  again  in  their  glory; 
and  you  see  the  storms  that  buried  them  — 
the  ashes  and  torrents  laden  with  boulders 
and  mud,  the  centuries  of  sunshine,  and  the 
dark,  lurid  nights.  You  see  again  the  vast 
floods  of  lava,  red-hot  and  white-hot,  pouring 
out  from  gigantic  geysers,  usurping  the  basins 
of  lakes  and  streams,  absorbing  or  driving 
away  their  hissing,  screaming  waters,  flowing 
around  hills  and  ridges,  submerging  every 
subordinate  feature.  Then  you  see  the  snow 
and  glaciers  taking  possession  of  the  land, 
making  new  landscapes.  How  admirable  it  is 
that,  after  passing  through  so  many  vicissi 
tudes  of  frost  and  fire  and  flood,  the  physiog 
nomy  and  even  the  complexion  of  the  land 
scape  should  still  be  so  divinely  fine! 

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OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Thus  reviewing  the  eventful  past,  we  see 
Nature  working  with  enthusiasm  like  a  man, 
blowing  her  volcanic  forges  like  a  blacksmith 
blowing  his  smithy  fires,  shoving  glaciers  over 
the  landscapes  like  a  carpenter  shoving  his 
planes,  clearing,  ploughing,  harrowing,  irri 
gating,  planting,  and  sowing  broadcast  like  a 
farmer  and  gardener,  doing  rough  work  and 
fine  work,  planting  sequoias  and  pines,  rose 
bushes  and  daisies;  working  hi  gems,  filling 
every  crack  and  hollow  with  them;  distilling 
fine  essences;  painting  plants  and  shells,  clouds, 
mountains,  all  the  earth  and  heavens,  like  an 
artist,  —  ever  working  toward  beauty  higher 
and  higher.  Where  may  the  mind  find  more 
stimulating,  quickening  pasturage?  A  thou 
sand  Yellowstone  wonders  are  calling,  "Look 
up  and  down  and  round  about  you!"  And  a 
multitude  of  still,  small  voices  may  be  heard 
directing  you  to  look  through  all  this  transient, 
shifting  show  of  things  called  "substantial" 
into  the  truly  substantial  spiritual  world 
whose  forms  flesh  and  wood,  rock  and  water, 
air  and  sunshine,  only  veil  and  conceal,  and 
to  learn  that  here  is  heaven  and  the  dwelling- 
place  of  the  angels. 

The  sun  is  setting;  long,  violet  shadows  are 
growing  out  over  the  woods  from  the  moun 
tains  along  the  western  rim  of  the  park;  the 

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YELLOWSTONE  NATIONAL  PARK 

Absaroka  range  is  baptized  in  the  divine  light 
of  the  alpenglow,  and  its  rocks  and  trees  are 
transfigured.  Next  to  the  light  of  the  dawn  on 
high  mountain  tops,  the  alpenglow  is  the  most 
impressive  of  all  the  terrestrial  manifestations 
of  God. 

Now  comes  the  gloaming.  The  alpenglow  is 
fading  into  earthy,  murky  gloom,  but  do  not 
let  your  town  habits  draw  you  away  to  the 
hotel.  Stay  on  this  good  fire-mountain  and 
spend  the  night  among  the  stars.  Watch 
their  glorious  bloom  until  the  dawn,  and  get 
one  more  baptism  of  light.  Then,  with  fresh 
heart,  go  down  to  your  work,  and  whatever 
your  fate,  under  whatever  ignorance  or  knowl 
edge  you  may  afterward  chance  to  suffer,  you 
will  remember  these  fine,  wild  views,  and  look 
back  with  joy  to  your  wanderings  hi  the  blessed 
old  Yellowstone  Wonderland. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

OF  all  the  mountain  ranges  I  have  climbed,  I 
like  the  Sierra  Nevada  the  best.  Though  ex 
tremely  rugged,  with  its  mam  features  on  the 
grandest  scale  in  height  and  depth,  it  is  never 
theless  easy  of  access  and  hospitable;  and  its 
marvelous  beauty,  displayed  in  striking  and 
alluring  forms,  wooes  the  admiring  wanderer 
on  and  on,  higher  and  higher,  charmed  and 
enchanted.  Benevolent,  solemn,  fateful,  per 
vaded  with  divine  light,  every  landscape  glows 
like  a  countenance  hallowed  in  eternal  repose; 
and  every  one  of  its  living  creatures,  clad  in 
flesh  and  leaves,  and  every  crystal  of  its  rocks, 
whether  on  the  surface  shining  in  the  sun  or 
buried  miles  deep  hi  what  we  call  darkness,  is 
throbbing  and  pulsing  with  the  heartbeats  of 
God.  All  the  world  lies  warm  in  one  heart,  yet 
the  Sierra  seems  to  get  more  light  than  other 
mountains.  The  weather  is  mostly  sunshine 
embellished  with  magnificent  storms,  and 
nearly  everything  shines  from  base  to  summit, 
-  the  rocks,  streams,  lakes,  glaciers,  irised 
falls,  and  the  forests  of  silver  fir  and  silver 
pine.  And  how  bright  is  the  shining  after 

84 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

summer  showers  and  dewy  nights,  and  after 
frosty  nights  in  spring  and  autumn,  when  the 
morning  sunbeams  are  pouring  through  the 
crystals  on  the  bushes  and  grass,  and  in  winter 
through  the  snow-laden  trees! 

The  average  cloudiness  for  the  whole  year 
is  perhaps  less  than  ten  hundredths.  Scarcely 
a  day  of  all  the  summer  is  dark,  though  there 
is  no  lack  of  magnificent  thundering  cumuli. 
They  rise  in  the  warm  midday  hours,  mostly 
over  the  middle  region,  in  June  and  July,  like 
new  mountain  ranges,  higher  Sierras,  mightily 
augmenting  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  while 
giving  rain  to  the  forests  and  gardens  and 
bringing  forth  their  fragrance.  The  wonder 
ful  weather  and  beauty  inspire  everybody  to 
be  up  and  doing.  Every  summer  day  is  a  work 
day  to  be  confidently  counted  on,*  the  short 
dashes  of  rain  forming,  not  interruptions,  but 
rests.  The  big  blessed  storm  days  of  winter, 
when  the  whole  range  stands  white,  are  not  a 
whit  less  inspiring  and  kind.  Well  may  the 
Sierra  be  called  the  Range  of  Light,  not  the 
Snowy  Range;  for  only  in  winter  is  it  white, 
while  all  the  year  it  is  bright. 

Of  this  glorious  range  the  Yosemite  National 
Park  is  a  central  section,  thirty-six  miles  in 
length  and  forty-eight  miles  in  breadth.  The 
famous  Yosemite  Valley  lies  in  the  heart  of  it,. 

85 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  it  includes  the  head  waters  of  the  Tuo 
lumne  and  Merced  rivers,  two  of  the  most 
songful  streams  in  the  world;  innumerable 
lakes  and  waterfalls  and  smooth  silky  lawns; 
the  noblest  forests,  the  loftiest  granite  domes, 
the  deepest  ice-sculptured  canons,  the  bright 
est  crystalline  pavements,  and  snowy  moun 
tains  soaring  into  the  sky  twelve  and  thirteen 
thousand  feet,  arrayed  in  open  ranks  and  spiry 
pinnacled  groups  partially  separated  by  tre 
mendous  canons  and  amphitheaters;  gardens 
on  their  sunny  brows,  avalanches  thundering 
down  their  long  white  slopes,  cataracts  roaring 
gray  and  foaming  in  the  crooked  rugged  gorges, 
and  glaciers  hi  their  shadowy  recesses  working 
in  silence,  slowly  completing  their  sculpture; 
newborn  lakes  at  their  feet,  blue  and  green, 
free  or  encumbered  with  drifting  icebergs  like 
miniature  Arctic  Oceans,  shining,  sparkling, 
calm  as  stars. 

Nowhere  will  you  see  the  majestic  opera 
tions  of  nature  more  clearly  revealed  beside 
the  frailest,  most  gentle  and  peaceful  things. 
Nearly  all  the  park  is  a  profound  solitude.  Yet 
it  is  full  of  charming  company,  full  of  God's 
thoughts,  a  place  of  peace  and  safety  amid  the 
most  exalted  grandeur  and  eager  enthusiastic 
action,  a  new  song,  a  place  of  beginnings 
abounding  in  first  lessons  on  life,  mount  ain- 

86 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

building,  eternal,  invincible,  unbreakable  or 
der;  with  sermons  in  stones,  storms,  trees, 
flowers,  and  animals  brimful  of  humanity, 
During  the  last  glacial  period,  just  past,  the 
former  features  of  the  range  were  rubbed  off 
as  a  chalk  sketch  from  a  blackboard,  and  a 
new  beginning  was  made.  Hence  the  wonder 
ful  clearness  and  freshness  of  the  rocky  pages. 

But  to  get  all  this  into  words  is  a  hopeless 
task.  The  leanest  sketch  of  each  feature  would 
need  a  whole  chapter.  Nor  would  any  amount 
of  space,  however  industriously  scribbled,  be 
of  much  avail.  To  defrauded  town  toilers, 
parks  in  magazine  articles  are  like  pictures  of 
bread  to  the  hungry.  I  can  write  only  hints 
to  incite  good  wanderers  to  come  to  the  feast. 

While  this  glorious  park  embraces  big,  gen 
erous  samples  of  the  very  best  of  the  Sierra 
treasures,  it  is,  fortunately,  at  the  same  time, 
the  most  accessible  portion.  It  lies  opposite 
San  Francisco,  at  a  distance  of  about  one 
hundred  and  forty  miles.  Railroads  connected 
with  all  the  continent  reach  into  the  foothills, 
and  three  good  carriage  roads,  from  Big  Oak 
Flat,  Coulterville,  and  Raymond,  run  into 
Yosemite  Valley.  Another,  called  the  Tioga 
road,  runs  from  Crocker's  Station  on  the 
Yosemite  Big  Oak  Flat  road  near  the  Tuo- 
lumne  Big  Tree  Grove,  right  across  the  park 

87 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

to  the  summit  of  the  range  by  way  of  Lake 
Tenaya,  the  Big  Tuolumne  Meadows,  and 
Mount  Dana.  These  roads,  writh  many  trails 
that  radiate  from  Yosemite  Valley,  bring  most 
of  the  park  within  reach  of  everybody,  well 
or  half  well. 

The  three  mam  natural  divisions  of  the  park, 
the  lower,  middle,  and  alpine  regions,  are  fairly 
well  defined  in  altitude,  topographical  fea 
tures,  and  vegetation.  The  lower,  with  an  av 
erage  elevation  of  about  five  thousand  feet, 
is  the  region  of  the  great  forests,  made  up  of 
sugar  pine,  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  of 
all  the  pines  in  the  world;  the  silvery  yellow 
pine,  the  next  in  rank;  Douglas  spruce,  libo- 
cedrus,  the  white  and  red  silver  firs,  and  the 
Sequoia  gigantea,  or  "big  tree,"  the  king  of 
conifers,  the  noblest  of  a  noble  race.  On  warm 
slopes  next  the  foothills  there  are  a  few  Sa- 
bine  nut  pines;  oaks  make  beautiful  groves  in 
the  canon  valleys;  and  poplar,  alder,  maple, 
laurel,  and  Nuttall's  flowering  dogwood  shade 
the  banks  of  the  streams.  Many  of  the  pines 
are  more  than  two  hundred  feet  high,  but 
they  are  not  crowded  together.  The  sun 
beams  streaming  through  their  feathery  arches 
brighten  the  ground,  and  you  walk  beneath 
the  radiant  ceiling  in  devout  subdued  mood,  as 
if  you  were  in  a  grand  cathedral  with  mellow 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

light  sifting  through  colored  windows,  while 
the  flowery  pillared  aisles  open  enchanting 
vistas  in  every  direction.  Scarcely  a  peak  or 
ridge  in  the  whole  region  rises  bare  above  the 
forests,  though  they  are  thinly  planted  in  some 
places  where  the  soil  is  shallow.  From  the  cool 
breezy  heights  you  look  abroad  over  a  bound 
less  waving  sea  of  evergreens,  covering  hill 
and  ridge  and  smooth-flowing  slope  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach,  and  filling  every  hollow  and 
down-plunging  ravine  in  glorious  triumphant 
exuberance. 

Perhaps  the  best  general  view  of  the  pine 
forests  of  the  park,  and  one  of  the  best  in  the 
range,  is  obtained  from  the  top  of  the  Merced 
and  Tuolumne  divide  near  Hazel  Green.  On 
the  long,  smooth,  finely  folded  slopes  of  the 
main  ridge,  at  a  height  of  five  to  six  thou 
sand  feet  above  the  sea,  they  reach  most  per 
fect  development  and  are  marshaled  to  view 
in  magnificent  towering  ranks,  their  colossal 
spires  and  domes  and  broad  palmlike  crowns, 
deep  in  the  kind  sky,  rising  above  one  another, 
—  a  multitude  of  giants  in  perfect  health  and 
beauty,  —  sun-fed  mountaineers  rejoicing  in 
their  strength,  chanting  with  the  winds,  in 
accord  with  the  falling  waters,  The  ground  is 
mostly  open  and  inviting  to  walkers.  The  fra 
grant  chamsebatia  is  outspread  in  rich  carpets 

89 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

miles  in  extent;  the  manzanita,  in  orchard-like 
groves,  covered  with  pink  bell-shaped  flowers 
in  the  spring,  grows  in  openings  facing  the  sun, 
hazel  and  buckthorn  in  the  dells;  warm  brows 
are  purple  with  mint,  yellow  with  sunflowers 
and  violets;  and  tall  lilies  ring  their  bells 
around  the  borders  of  meadows  and  along  the 
ferny,  mossy  banks  of  the  streams.  Never  was 
mountain  forest  more  lavishly  furnished. 

Hazel  Green  is  a  good  place  quietly  to  camp 
and  study,  to  get  acquainted  with  the  trees  and 
birds,  to  drink  the  reviving  water  and  weather, 
and  to  watch  the  changing  lights  of  the  big 
charmed  days.  The  rose  light  of  the  dawn, 
creeping  higher  among  the  stars,  changes  to 
daffodil  yellow;  then  come  the  level  enthusi 
astic  sunbeams  pouring  across  the  feathery 
ridges,  touching  pine  after  pine,  spruce  and  fir, 
libocedrus  and  lordly  sequoia,  searching  every 
recess,  until  all  are  awakened  and  warmed. 
In  the  white  noon  they  shine  in  silvery  splen 
dor,  every  needle  and  cell  in  bole  and  branch 
thrilling  and  tingling  with  ardent  life;  and  the 
whole  landscape  glows  with  consciousness,  like 
the  face  of  a  god.  The  hours  go  by  uncounted. 
The  evening  flames  with  purple  and  gold.  The 
breeze  that  has  been  blowing  from  the  low 
lands  dies  away,  and  far  and  near  the  mighty 
host  of  trees  baptized  in  the  purple  flood  stand 

90 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

hushed  and  thoughtful,  awaiting  the  sun's 
blessing  and  farewell,  —  as  impressive  a  cere 
mony  as1  if  it  were  never  to  rise  again.  When 
the  daylight  fades,  the  night  breeze  from  the 
snowy  summits  begins  to  blow,  and  the  trees, 
waving  and  rustling  beneath  the  stars,  breathe 
free  again. 

It  is  hard  to  leave  such  camps  and  woods; 
nevertheless,  to  the  large  majority  of  travelers 
the  middle  region  of  the  park  is  still  more  in 
teresting,  for  it  has  the  most  striking  features 
of  all  the  Sierra  scenery,  —  the  deepest  sec 
tions  of  the  famous  canons,  of  which  the  Yo- 
semite  Valley,  Hetch-Hetchy  Valley,  and 
many  smaller  ones  are  wider  portions,  with 
level  parklike  floors  and  walls  of  immense 
height  and  grandeur  of  sculpture.  This  mid 
dle  region  holds  also  the  greater  number  of 
the  beautiful  glacier  lakes  and  glacier  mead 
ows,  the  great  granite  domes,  and  the  most 
brilliant  and  most  extensive  of  the  glacier  pave 
ments.  And  though  in  large  part  it  is  severely 
rocky  and  bare,  it  is  still  rich  hi  trees.  The 
magnificent  silver  fir  (Abies  magnified),  which 
ranks  with  the  giants,  forms  a  continuous  belt 
across  the  park  above  the  pines  at  an  elevation 
of  from  seven  to  nine  thousand  feet,  and  north 
and  south  of  the  park  boundaries  to  the  extrem 
ities  of  the  range,  only  slightly  interrupted  by 

91 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  main  canons.  The  two-leaved  or  tamarack 
pine  makes  another  less  regular  belt  along  the 
upper  margin  of  the  region,  while  between 
these  two  belts,  and  mingling  with  them,  in 
groves  or  scattered,  are  the  mountain  hemlock, 
the  most  graceful  of  evergreens;  the  noble 
mountain  pine;  the  Jeffrey  form  of  the  yellow 
pine,  with  big  cones  and  long  needles;  and  the 
brown,  burly,  sturdy  Western  juniper.  All 
these,  except  the  juniper,  which  grows  on  bald 
rocks,  have  plenty  of  flowery  brush  about 
them,  and  gardens  in  open  spaces. 

Here,  too,  lies  the  broad,  shining,  heavily 
sculptured  region  of  primeval  granite,  which 
best  tells  the  story  of  the  glacial  period  on  the 
Pacific  side  of  the  continent.  No  other  moun 
tain  chain  on  the  globe,  as  far  as  I  know,  is  so 
rich  as  the  Sierra  in  bold,  striking,  well-pre 
served  glacial  monuments,  easily  understood 
by  anybody  capable  of  patient  observation. 
Every  feature  is  more  or  less  glacial,  and  this 
park  portion  of  the  range  is  the  brightest  and 
clearest  of  all.  Not  a  peak,  ridge,  dome,  canon, 
lake  basin,  garden,  forest,  or  stream  but  in 
some  way  explains  the  past  existence  and 
modes  of  action  of  flowing,  grinding,  sculp 
turing,  soil-making,  scenery-making  ice.  For, 
notwithstanding  the  post-glacial  agents  —  air, 
rain,  frost,  rivers,  earthquakes,  avalanches  — 

92 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

have  been  at  work  upon  the  greater  part  of 
the  range  for  tens  of  thousands  of  stormy  years, 
engraving  their  own  characters  over  those  of 
the  ice,  the  latter  are  so  heavily  emphasized 
and  enduring  they  still  rise  in  sublime  relief, 
clear  and  legible  through  every  after  inscrip 
tion.  The  streams  have  traced  only  shallow 
wrinkles  as  yet,  and  avalanche,  wind,  rain, 
and  melting  snow  have  made  blurs  and  scars, 
but  the  change  effected  on  the  face  of  the  land 
scape  is  not  greater  than  is  made  on  the  face 
of  a  mountaineer  by  a  single  year  of  weathering. 
Of  all  the  glacial  phenomena  presented  here, 
the  most  striking  and  attractive  to  travelers 
are  the  polished  pavements,  because  they  are 
so  beautiful,  and  their  beauty  is  of  so  rare  a 
kind,  —  unlike  any  part  of  the  loose  earthy 
lowlands  where  people  dwell  and  earn  their 
bread.  They  are  simply  flat  or  gently  undu 
lating  areas  of  solid  resisting  granite,  the  un 
changed  surface  over  which  the  ancient  glaciers 
flowed.  They  are  found  in  the  most  perfect 
condition  at  an  elevation  of  from  eight  to  nine 
thousand  feet  above  sea  level.  Some  are  miles 
in  extent,  only  slightly  blurred  or  scarred  by 
spots  that  have  at  last  yielded  to  the  weather; 
while  the  best  preserved  portions  are  brilliantly 
polished,  and  reflect  the  sunbeams  as  calm 
water  or  glass,  shining  as  if  rubbed  and  bur- 

93 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

nished  every  day,  notwithstanding  they  have 
been  exposed  to  plashing,  corroding  rains,  dew, 
frost,  and  melting  sloppy  snows  for  thousands 
of  years. 

The  attention  of  hunters  and  prospectors, 
who  see  so  much  in  their  wild  journeys,  is  sel 
dom  attracted  by  moraines,  however  regular 
and  artificial-looking;  or  rocks,  however  boldly 
sculptured ;  or  canons,  however  deep  and  sheer- 
walled.  But  when  they  come  to  these  pave 
ments,  they  go  down  on  their  knees  and  rub 
their  hands  admiringly  on  the  glistening  sur 
face,  and  try  hard  to  account  for  its  mysterious 
smoothness  and  brightness.  They  may  have 
seen  the  winter  avalanches  come  down  the 
mountains,  through  the  woods,  sweeping  away 
the  trees  and  scouring  the  ground;  but  they 
conclude  that  this  cannot  be  the  work  of  ava 
lanches,  because  the  striae  show  that  the  agent, 
whatever  it  was,  flowed  along  and  around  and 
over  the  top  of  high  ridges  and  domes,  and 
also  filled  the  deep  canons.  Neither  can  they 
see  how  water  could  be  the  agent,  for  the 
strange  polish  is  found  thousands  of  feet  above 
the  reach  of  any  conceivable  flood.  Only  the 
winds  seem  capable  of  moving  over  the  face 
of  the  country  in  the  directions  indicated  by 
the  lines  and  grooves. 

The  pavements  are  particularly  fine  around 
94 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

Lake  Tenaya,  and  have  suggested  the  Indian 
name  Py-we-ack,  the  Lake  of  the  Shining 
Rocks.  Indians  seldom  trouble  themselves 
with  geological  questions,  but  a  Mono  Indian 
once  came  to  me  and  asked  if  I  could  tell  him 
what  made  the  rocks  so  smooth  at  Tenaya. 
Even  dogs  and  horses,  on  their  first  journeys 
into  this  region,  study  geology  to  the  extent 
of  gazing  wonderingly  at  the  strange  bright 
ness  of  the  ground,  and  pawing  it  and  smell 
ing  it,  as  if  afraid  of  falling  or  sinking. 

In  the  production  of  this  admirable  hard 
finish,  the  glaciers  in  many  places  exerted  a 
pressure. of  more  than  a  hundred  tons  to  the 
square  foot,  planing  down  granite,  slate,  and 
quartz  alike,  showing  their  structure,  and 
making  beautiful  mosaics  where  large  feldspar 
crystals  form  the  greater  part  of  the  rock.  On 
such  pavements  the  sunshine  is  at  tunes  daz 
zling,  as  if  the  surface  were  of  burnished  silver. 

Here,  also,  are  the  brightest  of  the  Sierra 
landscapes  in  general.  The  regions  lying  at 
the  same  elevation  to  the  north  and  south  were 
perhaps  subjected  to  as  long  and  intense  a 
glaciation;  but  because  the  rocks  are  less  resist 
ing,  their  polished  surfaces  have  mostly  given 
way  to  the  weather,  leaving  here  and  there  only 
small  imperfect  patches  on  the  most  enduring 
portions  of  canon  walls  protected  from  the  ac- 
95 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tion  of  rain  and  snow,  and  on  hard  bosses  kept 
comparatively  dry  by  boulders.  The  short, 
steeply  inclined  canons  of  the  east  flank  of 
the  range  are  in  some  places  brightly  polished, 
but  they  are  far  less  magnificent  than  those  of 
the  broad  west  flank. 

One  of  the  best  general  views  of  the  middle 
region  of  the  park  is  to  be  had  from  the  top  of 
a  majestic  dome  which  long  ago  I  named  the 
Glacier  Monument.  It  is  situated  a  few  miles 
to  the  north  of  Cathedral  Peak,  and  rises  to  a 
height  of  about  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  its 
base  and  ten  thousand  above  the  sea.  At  first 
sight  it  seems  sternly  inaccessible,  but  a  good 
climber  will  find  that  it  may  be  scaled  on  the 
south  side.  Approaching  it  from  this  side  you 
pass  through  a  dense  bryanthus-f ringed  grove 
of  mountain  hemlock,  catching  glimpses  now 
and  then  of  the  colossal  dome  towering  to  an 
immense  height  above  the  dark  evergreens; 
and  when  at  last  you  have  made  your  way 
across  woods,  wading  through  azalea  and 
ledum  thickets,  you  step  abruptly  out  of  the 
tree  shadows  and  mossy  leafy  softness  upon  a 
bare  porphyry  pavement,  and  behold  the  dome 
unveiled  in  all  its  grandeur.  Fancy  a  nicely 
proportioned  monument,  eight  or  ten  feet 
high,  hewn  from  one  stone,  standing  in  a  pleas 
ure  ground;  magnify  it  to  a  height  of  fifteen 

96 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

hundred  feet,  retaining  its  simplicity  of  form 
and  fineness,  and  cover  its  surface  with  crys 
tals;  then  you  may  gain  an  idea  of  the  sub 
limity  and  beauty  of  this  ice-burnished  dome, 
one  of  many  adorning  this  wonderful  park. 

In  making  the  ascent,  one  finds  that  the 
curve  of  the  base  rapidly  steepens,  until  one  is 
in  danger  of  slipping;  but  feldspar  crystals,  two 
or  three  inches  long,  that  have  been  weathered 
into  relief,  afford  slight  footholds.  The  sum 
mit  is  in  part  burnished,  like  the  sides  and 
base,  the  striae  and  scratches  indicating  that 
the  mighty  Tuolumne  Glacier,  two  or  three 
thousand  feet  deep,  overwhelmed  it  while  it 
stood  firm  like  a  boulder  at  the  bottom  of  a 
river.  The  pressure  it  withstood  must  have 
been  enormous.  Had  it  been  less  solidly  built, 
it  would  have  been  ground  and  crushed  into 
moraine  fragments,  like  the  general  mass  of 
the  mountain  flank  in  which  at  first  it  lay  im 
bedded;  for  it  is  only  a  hard  residual  knob  or 
knot  with  a  concentric  structure  of  superior 
strength,  brought  into  relief  by  the  removal 
of  the  less  resisting  rock  about  it,  —  an  illus 
tration  in  stone  of  the  survival  of  the  strong 
est  and  most  favorably  situated. 

Hardly  less  wonderful,  when  we  contem 
plate  the  storms  it  has  encountered  since  first 
it  saw  the  light,  is  its  present  unwasted  condi- 
97 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tion.  The  whole  quantity  of  postglacial  wear 
and  tear  it  has  suffered  has  not  diminished  its 
stature  a  single  inch,  as  may  be  readily  shown 
by  measuring  from  the  level  of  the  unchanged 
polished  portions  of  the  surface.  Indeed,  the 
average  postglacial  denudation  of  the  entire 
region,  measured  in  the  same  way,  is  found  to 
be  less  than  two  inches,  —  a  mighty  contrast 
to  that  of  the  ice;  for  the  glacial  denudation 
here  has  been  not  less  than  a  mile;  that  is,  hi 
developing  the  present  landscapes,  an  amount 
of  rock  a  mile  in  average  thickness  has  been 
silently  carried  away  by  flowing  ice  during  the 
last  glacial  period. 

A  few  erratic  boulders  nicely  poised  on  the 
rounded  summit  of  the  monument  tell  an 
interesting  story.  They  came  from  a  moun 
tain  on  the  crest  of  the  range,  about  twelve 
miles  to  the  eastward,  floating  like  chips  on  the 
frozen  sea,  and  were  stranded  here  when  the 
top  of  the  monument  emerged  to  the  light  of 
day,  while  the  companions  of  these  boulders, 
whose  positions  chanced  to  be  over  the  slopes 
where  they  could  not  find  rest,  were  carried 
farther  on  by  the  shallowing  current. 

The  general  view  from  the  summit  consists 
of  a  sublime  assemblage  of  iceborn  mountains 
and  rocks  and  long  wavering  ridges,  lakes  and 
streams  and  meadows,  moraines  hi  wide- 

98 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

sweeping  belts,  and  beds  covered  and  dotted 
with  forests  and  groves,  —  hundreds  of  square 
miles  of  them  composed  in  wild  harmony. 
The  snowy  mountains  on  the  axis  of  the  range, 
mostly  sharp-peaked  and  crested,  rise  in  noble 
array  along  the  sky  to  the  eastward  and  north 
ward;  the  gray-pillared  Hoffman  spur  and  the 
Yosemite  domes  and  a  countless  number  of 
others  to  the  westward;  Cathedral  Peak  with 
its  many  spires  and  companion  peaks  and 
domes  to  the  southward;  and  a  smooth  billowy 
multitude  of  rocks,  from  fifty  feet  or  less  to  a 
thousand  feet  high,  which  from  their  peculiar 
form  seem  to  be  rolling  on  westward,  fill  most 
of  the  middle  ground.  Immediately  beneath 
you  are  the  Big  Tuolumne  Meadows,  with  an 
ample  swath  of  dark  pine  woods  on  either  side, 
enlivened  by  the  young  river,  that  is  seen 
sparkling  and  shimmering  as  it  sways  from 
side  to  side,  tracing  as  best  it  can  its  broad 
glacial  channel. 

The  ancient  Tuolumne  Glacier,  lavishly 
flooded  by  many  a  noble  affluent  from  the 
snow-laden  flanks  of  Mounts  Dana,  Gibbs, 
Lyell,  Maclure,  and  others  nameless  as  yet, 
poured  its  majestic  overflowing  current,  four 
or  five  miles  wide,  directly  against  the  high 
outstanding  mass  of  Mount  Hoffman,  which 
divided  and  deflected  it  right  and  left,  just  as 

99 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

a  river  is  divided  against  an  island  that  stands 
in  the  middle  of  its  channel.  Two  distinct  gla 
ciers  were  thus  formed,  one  of  which  flowed 
through  the  Big  Tuolumne  Canon  and  Hetch- 
Hetchy  Valley,  while  the  other  swept  upward 
five  hundred  feet  in  a  broad  current  across 
the  divide  between  the  basins  of  the  Tuolumne 
and  Merced  into  the  Tenaya  basin,  and  thence 
down  through  the  Tenaya  Canon  and  Yosem- 
ite  Valley. 

The  maplike  distinctness  and  freshness  of 
this  glacial  landscape  cannot  fail  to  excite  the 
attention  of  every  observer,  no  matter  how 
little  of  its  scientific  significance  he  may  at 
first  recognize.  These  bald,  glossy,  westward- 
leaning  rocks  in  the  open  middle  ground,  with 
their  rounded  backs  and  shoulders  toward 
the  glacier  fountains  of  the  summit  mountains 
and  their  split  angular  fronts  looking  in  the 
opposite  direction,  every  one  of  them  display 
ing  the  form  of  greatest  strength  with  refer 
ence  to  physical  structure  and  glacial  action, 
show  the  tremendous  force  with  which  through 
unnumbered  centuries  the  ice  flood  swept 
over  them,  and  also  the  direction  of  the  flow; 
while  the  mountains,  with  their  sharp  sum 
mits  and  abraded  sides,  indicate  the  height 
to  which  the  glacier  rose;  and  the  moraines, 
curving  and  swaying  in  beautiful  lines,  mark 
100 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

the  boundaries  of  the  main  trunk  and  its 
tributaries  as  they  existed  toward  the  close  of 
the  glacial  winter.  None  of  the  commercial 
highways  of  the  sea  or  land,  marked  with 
buoys  and  lamps,  fences  and  guideboards,  is 
so  unmistakably  indicated  as  are  these  chan 
nels  of  the  vanished  Tuolumne  glaciers. 

The  action  of  flowing  ice,  whether  in  the 
form  of  river-like  glaciers  or  broad  mantling 
folds,  is  but  little  understood  as  compared 
with  that  of  other  sculpturing  agents.  Rivers 
work  openly  where  people  dwell,  and  so  do  the 
rain,  and  the  sea  thundering  on  all  the  shores 
of  the  world;  and  the  universal  ocean  of  air, 
though  unseen,  speaks  aloud  in  a  thousand 
voices  and  explains  its  modes  of  working  and 
its  power.  But  glaciers,  back  in  their  cold  soli 
tudes,  work  apart  from  men,  exerting  their 
tremendous  energies  in  silence  and  darkness. 
Coming  in  vapor  from  the  sea,  flying  invisi 
ble  on  the  wind,  descending  in  snow,  changing 
to  ice,  white,  spiritlike,  they  brood  outspread 
over  the  predestined  landscapes,  working  on 
unwearied  through  unmeasured  ages,  until  in 
the  fullness  of  time  the  mountains  and  valleys 
are  brought  forth,  channels  furrowed  for  the 
rivers,  basins  made  for  meadows  and  lakes,  and 
soil  beds  spread  for  the  forests  and  fields  that 
man  and  beast  may  be  fed.  Then  vanishing 

101 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

like  clouds,  they  melt  into  streams  and  go 
singing  back  home  to  the  sea. 

To  an  observer  upon  this  adamantine  old 
monument  hi  the  midst  of  such  scenery,  get 
ting  glimpses  of  the  thoughts  of  God,  the  day 
seems  endless,  the  sun  stands  still.  Much  faith 
less  fuss  is  made  over  the  passage  in  the  Bible 
telling  of  the  standing  still  of  the  sun  for 
Joshua.  Here  you  may  learn  that  the  miracle 
occurs  for  every  devout  mountaineer,  for 
everybody  doing  anything  worth  doing,  seeing 
anything  worth  seeing.  One  day  is  as  a  thou 
sand  years,  a  thousand  years  as  one  day,  and 
while  yet  in  the  flesh  you  enjoy  immortality. 

From  the  monument  you  will  find  an  easy 
way  down  through  the  woods  and  along  the 
Big  Tuolumne  Meadows  to  Mount  Dana,  the 
summit  of  which  commands  a  grand  telling 
view  of  the  alpine  region.  The  scenery  all  the 
way  is  inspiring,  and  you  saunter  on  without 
knowing  that  you  are  climbing.  The  spacious 
sunny  meadows,  through  the  midst  of  which 
the  bright  river  glides,  extend  with  but  little 
interruption  ten  miles  to  the  eastward,  dark 
woods  rising  on  either  side  to  the  limit  of  tree 
growth,  and  above  the  woods  a  picturesque 
line  of  gray  peaks  and  spires  dotted  with  snow 
banks;  while,  on  the  axis  of  the  Sierra,  Mount 
Dana  and  his  noble  compeers  repose  in  mas- 

102 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

sive  sublimity,  their  vast  size  and  simple  flow 
ing  contours  contrasting  in  the  most  striking 
manner  with  the  clustering  spire  and  thin- 
pinnacled  crests  crisply  outlined  on  the  hori 
zon  to  the  north  and  south  of  them. 

Tracing  the  silky  lawns,  gradually  ascend 
ing,  gazing  at  the  sublime  scenery  more  and 
more  openly  unfolded,  noting  the  avalanche 
gaps  in  the  upper  forests,  lingering  over  beds 
of  blue  gentians  and  purple-flowered  bryan- 
thus  and  cassiope,  and  dwarf  willows  an  inch 
high  in  close-felted  gray  carpets,  brightened 
here  and  there  with  kalmia  and  soft  creeping 
mats  of  vaccinium  sprinkled  with  pink  bells 
that  seem  to  have  been  showered  down  from 
the  sky  like  hail,  —  thus  beguiled  and  en 
chanted,  you  reach  the  base  of  the  mountain 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  miles  you  have 
walked.  And  so  on  to  the  summit.  For  all  the 
way  up  the  long  red  slate  slopes,  that  in  the 
distance  seemed  barren,  you  find  little  garden 
beds  and  tufts  of  dwarf  phlox,  ivesia,  and  blue 
arctic  daisies  that  go  straight  to  your  heart, 
blessed  fellow  mountaineers  kept  safe  and 
warm  by  a  thousand  miracles.  You  are  now 
more  than  thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  and  to  the  north  and  south  you  behold  a 
sublime  wilderness  of  mountains  in  glorious 
array,  their  snowy  summits  towering  together 

103 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

in  crowded,  bewildering  abundance,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  peak  beyond  peak.  To  the  east 
lies  the  Great  Basin,  barren-looking  and  silent, 
apparently  a  land  of  pure  desolation,  rich  only 
in  beautiful  light.  Mono  Lake,  fourteen  miles 
long,  is  outspread  below  you  at  a  depth  of 
nearly  seven  thousand  feet,  its  shores  of  vol 
canic  ashes  and  sand,  treeless  and  sunburned; 
a  group  of  volcanic  cones,  with  well-formed, 
unwasted  craters  rises  to  the  south  of  the  lake; 
while  up  from  its  eastern  shore  innumerable 
mountains  with  soft  flowing  outlines  extend 
range  beyond  range,  gray,  and  pale  purple, 
and  blue,  —  the  farthest  gradually  fading  on 
the  glowing  horizon.  Westward  you  look  down 
and  over  the  countless  moraines,  glacier  mead 
ows,  and  grand  sea  of  domes  and  rock  waves 
of  the  upper  Tuolumne  basin,  the  Cathedral 
and  Hoffman  mountains  with  their  wavering 
lines  and  zones  of  forest,  the  wonderful  region 
to  the  north  of  the  Tuolumne  Canon,  and 
across  the  dark  belt  of  silver  firs  to  the  pale 
mountains  of  the  coast. 

In  the  icy  fountains  of  the  Mount  Lyell  and 
Ritter  groups  of  peaks,  to  the  south  of  Dana, 
three  of  the  most  important  of  the  Sierra  rivers 

—  the  Tuolumne,  Merced,  and  San  Joaquin 

—  take  their  rise,  their  highest  tributaries  be 
ing  within  a  few  miles  of  one  another  as  they 

104 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

rush  forth  on  their  adventurous  courses  from 
beneath  snow  banks  and  glaciers. 

Of  the  small  shrinking  glaciers  of  the  Sierra 
remnants  of  the  majestic  system  that  sculp 
tured  the  range,  I  have  seen  sixty-five.  About 
twenty-five  of  them  are  in  the  park,  and  eight 
are  in  sight  from  Mount  Dana. 

The  glacier  lakes  are  sprinkled  over  all  the 
alpine  and  subalpine  regions,  gleaming  like 
eyes  beneath  heavy  rock  brows,  tree-fringed 
or  bare,  embosomed  in  the  woods,  or  lying  in 
open  basins  with  green  and  purple  meadows 
around  them;  but  the  greater  number  are  in 
the  cool  shadowy  hollows  of  the  summit  moun 
tains  not  far  from  the  glaciers,  the  highest  ly 
ing  at  an  elevation  of  from  eleven  to  nearly 
twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  The 
whole  number  in  the  Sierra,  not  counting  the 
smallest,  can  hardly  be  less  than  fifteen  hun 
dred,  of  which  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
are  in  the  park.  From  one  standpoint,  on  Red 
Mountain,  I  counted  forty-two,  most  of  them 
within  a  radius  of  ten  miles.  The  glacier 
meadows,  which  are  spread  over  the  filled-up 
basins  of  vanished  lakes  and  form  one  of  the 
most  charming  features  of  the  scenery,  are 
still  more  numerous  than  the  lakes. 

An  observer  stationed  here,  in  the  glacial 
period,  would  have  overlooked  a  wrinkled 

105 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

mantle  of  ice  as  continuous  as  that  which  now 
covers  the  continent  of  Greenland;  and  of  all 
the  vast  landscape  now  shining  hi  the  sun, 
he  would  have  seen  only  the  tops  of  the  sum 
mit  peaks,  rising  darkly  like  storm-beaten 
islands,  lifeless  and  hopeless,  above  rock-en 
cumbered  ice  waves.  If  among  the  agents  that 
nature  has  employed  in  making  these  moun 
tains  there  be  one  that  above  all  others  deserves 
the  name  of  Destroyer,  it  is  the  glacier.  But 
we  quickly  learn. that  destruction  is  creation. 
During  the  dreary  centuries  through  which 
the  Sierra  lay  in  darkness,  crushed  beneath 
the  ice  folds  of  the  glacial  winter,  there  was  a 
steady  invincible  advance  toward  the  warm 
life  and  beauty  of  to-day;  and  it  is  just  where 
the  glaciers  crushed  most  destructively  that 
the  greatest  amount  of  beauty  is  made  mani 
fest.  But  as  these  landscapes  have  succeeded 
the  preglacial  landscapes,  so  they  in  turn  are 
giving  place  to  others  already  planned  and 
foreseen.  The  granite  domes  and  pavements, 
apparently  imperishable,  we  take  as  symbols 
of  permanence,  while  these  crumbling  peaks, 
down  whose  frosty  gullies  avalanches  are  ever 
falling,  are  symbols  of  change  and  decay.  Yet 
all  alike,  fast  or  slow,  are  surely  vanishing 
away. 

Nature  is  ever  at  work  building  and  pulling 

106 


YOSEMITE  NATIONAL  PARK 

down,  creating  and  destroying,  keeping  every 
thing  whirling  and  flowing,  allowing  no  rest 
but  in  rhythmical  motion,  chasing  everything 
in  endless  song  out  of  one  beautiful  form  into 
another. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FORESTS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK 

THE  coniferous  forests  of  the  Yosemite  Park, 
and  of  the  Sierra  in  general,  surpass  all  others 
of  then*  kind  in  America  or  indeed  in  the  world, 
not  only  in  the  size  and  beauty  of  the  trees, 
but  in  the  number  of  species  assembled  to 
gether,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains 
they  are  growing  on.  Leaving  the  workaday 
lowlands,  and  wandering  into  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  we  find  a  new  world,  and  stand  be 
side  the  majestic  pines  and  firs  and  sequoias 
silent  and  awe-stricken,  as  if  in  the  pres 
ence  of  superior  beings  new  arrived  from  some 
other  star,  so  calm  and  bright  and  godlike 
they  are. 

Going  to  the  woods  is  going  home;  for  I  sup 
pose  we  came  from  the  woods  originally.  But 
in  some  of  nature's  forests  the  adventurous 
traveler  seems  a  feeble,  unwelcome  creature; 
wild  beasts  and  the  weather  trying  to  kill  him, 
the  rank,  tangled  vegetation,  armed  with 
spears  and  stinging  needles,  barring  his  way 
and  making  life  a  hard  struggle.  Here  every 
thing  is  hospitable  and  kind,  as  if  planned  for 

108 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

your  pleasure,  ministering  to  every  want  of 
body  and  soul.  Even  the  storms  are  friendly 
and  seem  to  regard  you  as  a  brother,  their 
beauty  and  tremendous  fateful  earnestness 
charming  alike.  But  the  weather  is  mostly 
sunshine,  both  winter  and  summer,  and  the 
clear  sunny  brightness  of  the  park  is  one  of  its 
most  striking  characteristics.  Even  the  heavi 
est  portions  of  the  main  forest  belt,  where  the 
trees  are  tallest  and  stand  closest,  are  not  in 
the  least  gloomy.  The  sunshine  falls  in  glory 
through  the  colossal  spires  and  crowns,  each  a 
symbol  of  health  and  strength,  the  noble  shafts 
faithfully  upright  like  the  pillars  of  temples, 
upholding  a  roof  of  infinite  leafy  interlacing 
arches  and  fretted  skylights.  The  more,  open 
portions  are  like  spacious  parks,  carpeted  with 
small  shrubs,  or  only  with  the  fallen  needles 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  flowers.  In  some 
places,  where  the  ground  is  level  or  slopes 
gently,  the  trees  are  assembled  in  groves,  and 
the  flowers  and  underbrush  in  trim  beds  and 
thickets  as  in  landscape  gardens  or  the  lov 
ingly  planted  grounds  of  homes;  or  they  are 
drawn  up  in  orderly  rows  around  meadows 
and  lakes  and  along  the  brows  of  canons.  But 
in  general  the  forests  are  distributed  in  wide 
belts  in  accordance  with  climate  and  the  com 
parative  strength  of  each  kind  in  gaining  and 

109 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

holding  possession  of  the  ground,  while  any 
thing  like  monotonous  uniformity  is  prevented 
by  the  grandly  varied  topography,  and  by  the 
arrangement  of  the  best  soilbeds  hi  intricate 
patterns  like  embroidery;  for  these  soilbeds 
are  the  moraines  of  ancient  glaciers  more  or 
less  modified  by  weathering  and  stream  action, 
and  the  trees  trace  them  over  the  hills  and 
ridges,  and  far  up  the  sides  of  the  mountains, 
rising  with  even  growth  on  levels,  and  towering 
above  one  another  on  the  long  rich  slopes  pre 
pared  for  them  by  the  vanished  glaciers. 

Had  the  Sierra  forests  been  cheaply  acces 
sible,  the  most  valuable  of  them  commercially 
would  ere  this  have  fallen  a  prey  to  the  lum 
berman.  Thus  far  the  redwood  of  the  Coast 
Mountains  and  the  Douglas  spruce  of  Oregon 
and  Washington  have  been  more  available 
for  lumber  than  the  pine  of  the  Sierra.  It  cost 
less  to  go  a  thousand  miles  up  the  coast  for 
timber,  where  the  trees  came  down  to  the 
shores  of  navigable  rivers  and  bays,  than  fifty 
miles  up  the  mountains.  Nevertheless,  the 
superior  value  of  the  sugar  pine  for  many  pur 
poses  has  tempted  capitalists  to  expend  large 
sums  on  flumes  and  railroads  to  reach  the  best 
forests,  though  perhaps  none  of  these  enter 
prises  has  paid.  Fortunately,  the  lately  estab 
lished  system  of  parks  and  reservations  has 
no 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

put  a  stop  to  any  great  extension  of  the  busi 
ness  hereabouts  in  its  most  destructive  forms. 
And  as  the  Yosemite  Park  region  has  escaped 
the  millmen,  and  the  all-devouring  hordes  of 
hoofed  locusts  have  been  banished,  it  is  still 
in  the  main  a  pure  wilderness,  unbroken  by 
axe  clearings  except  on  the  lower  margin, 
where  a  few  settlers  have  opened  spots  beside 
hay  meadows  for  their  cabins  and  gardens. 
But  these  are  mere  dots  of  cultivation,  in  no 
appreciable  degree  disturbing  the  grand  soli 
tude.  Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  a  good  many 
trees  were  felled  for  their  seeds;  traces  of  this 
destructive  method  of  seed-collecting  are  still 
visible  along  the  trails;  but  these  as  well  as 
the  shingle-makers'  ruins  are  being  rapidly 
overgrown,  the  gardens  and  beds  of  under 
brush  once  devastated  by  sheep  are  blooming 
again  in  all  their  wild  glory,  and  the  park  is  a 
paradise  that  makes  even  the  loss  of  Eden  seem 
insignificant. 

On  the  way  to  Yosemite  Valley,  you  get 
some  grand  views  over  the  forests  of  the  Mer 
ced  and  Tuolumne  basins  and  glimpses  of 
some  of  the  finest  trees  by  the  roadside  with 
out  leaving  your  seat  in  the  stage.  But  to  learn 
how  they  live  and  behave  in  pure  wildness,  to 
see  them  in  their  varying  aspects  through  the 
seasons  and  weather,  rejoicing  in  the  great 
ill 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

storms,  in  the  spiritual  mountain  light,  put 
ting  forth  their  new  leaves  and  flowers  when 
all  the  streams  are  in  flood  and  the  birds  are 
singing,  and  sending  away  their  seeds  in  the 
thoughtful  Indian  summer  when  all  the  land 
scape  is  glowing  hi  deep,  calm  enthusiasm, — 
for  this  you  must  love  them  and  live  with 
them,  as  free  from  schemes  and  cares  and 
time  as  the  trees  themselves. 

And  surely  nobody  will  find  anything  hard 
in  this.  Even  the  blind  must  enjoy  these  woods, 
drinking  their  fragrance,  listening  to  the  music 
of  the  winds  in  their  groves,  and  fingering  their 
flowers  and  plumes  and  cones  and  richly  fur 
rowed  boles.  The  kind  of  study  required  is  as 
easy  and  natural  as  breathing.  Without  any 
great  knowledge  of  botany  or  wood-craft,  in  a 
single  season  you  may  learn  the  name  and 
something  more  of  nearly  every  kind  of  tree 
in  the  park. 

With  few  exceptions  all  the  Sierra  trees  are 
growing  in  the  park,  —  nine  species  of  pine, 
two  of  silver  fir,  one  each  of  Douglas  spruce, 
libocedrus,  hemlock,  juniper,  and  sequoia,  — 
sixteen  conifers  in  all,  and  about  the  same 
number  of  round-headed  trees,  oaks,  maples, 
poplars,  laurel,  alder,  dogwood,  tumion,  etc. 

The  first  of  the  conifers  you  meet  in  going 
up  the  range  from  the  west  is  the  digger  nut 

112 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

pine  (Pinus  Sabiniana),  a  remarkably  open, 
airy,  wide-branched  tree,  forty  to  sixty  feet 
high,  with  long,  sparse,  grayish  green  foliage 
and  large  cones.  At  a  height  of  fifteen  to  thirty 
feet  from  the  ground  the  trunk  usually  divides 
into  several  main  branches,  which,  after  bear 
ing  away  from  one  another,  shoot  straight  up 
and  form  separate  heads  as  if  the  axis  of  the 
tree  had  been  broken,  while  the  secondary 
branches  divide  again  and  again  into  rather 
slender  sprays  loosely  tasseled,  with  leaves 
eight  to  twelve  inches  long.  The  yellow  and 
purple  flowers  are  about  an  inch  long,  the 
staminate  in  showy  clusters.  The  big,  rough, 
burly  cones,  five  to  eight  or  ten  inches  in  length 
and  five  or  six  in  diameter,  are  rich  brown  in 
color  when  ripe,  and  full  of  hard-shelled  nuts 
that  are  greatly  prized  by  Indians  and  squir 
rels.  This  strange-looking  pine,  enjoying  hot 
sunshine  like  a  palm,  is  sparsely  distributed 
along  the  driest  part  of 'the  Sierra  among  small 
oaks  and  chaparral,  and  with  its  gray  mist  of 
foliage,  strong  trunk  and  branches,  and  big  cones 
seen  in  relief  on  the  glowing  sky,  forms  the 
most  striking  feature  of  the  foothill  vegetation. 
Pinus  attenuata  is  a  small,  slender,  arrowy 
tree,  with  pale  green  leaves  in.  threes,  clus 
tered  flowers  half  an  inch  long,  brownish  yel 
low  and  crimson,  and  cones  whorled  in  con 
ns 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

spicuous  clusters  around  the  branches  and  also 
around  the  trunk.  The  cones  never  fall  off  or 
open  until  the  tree  dies.  They  are  about  four 
inches  long,  exceedingly  strong  and  solid,  and 
varnished  with  hard  resin  forming  a  waterproof 
and  almost  worm  and  squirrel  proof  package, 
in  which  the  seeds  are  kept  fresh  and  safe  dur 
ing  the  lifetime  of  the  tree.  Sometimes  one  of 
the  trunk  cones  is  overgrown  and  imbedded 
in  tne  heart  wood  like  a  knot,  but  nearly  all 
are  pushed  out  and  kept  on  the  surface  by  the 
pressure  of  the  successive  layers  of  wood  against 
the  base. 

This  admirable  little  tree  grows  on  brushy, 
sun-beaten  slopes,  which  from  their  position 
and  the  inflammable  character  of  the  vegeta 
tion  are  most  frequently  fire-swept.  These 
grounds  it  is  able  to  hold  against  all  comers, 
however  big  and  strong,  by  saving  its  seeds 
until  death,  when  all  it  has  produced  are  scat 
tered  over  the  bare  cleared  ground,  and  a  new 
generation  quickly  springs  out  of  the  ashes. 
Thus  the  curious  fact  that  all  the  trees  of  ex 
tensive  groves  and  belts  are  of  the  same  age 
is  accounted  for,  and  their  slender  habit;  for 
the  lavish  abundance  of  seed  sown  at  the  same 
tune  makes  a.  crowded  growth,  and  the  seed 
lings  with  an  even  start  rush  up  in  a  hurried 
race  for  light  and  life. 

114 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

Only  a  few  of  the  attenuata  and  Sabiniana 
pines  are  within  the  boundaries  of  the  park, 
the  former  on  the  side  of  the  Merced  Canon, 
the  latter  on  the  walls  of  Hetch-Hetchy  Valley 
and  in  the  canon  below  it. 

The  nut  pine  (Pinus  monophylla)  is  a  small, 
hardy,  contented-looking  tree,  about  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  high  and  a  foot  in  diameter.  In  its 
youth  the  close  radiating  and  aspiring  branches 
form  a  handsome  broad-based  pyramid,  but 
when  fully  grown  it  becomes  round-topped, 
knotty,  and  irregular,  throwing  out  crooked 
divergent  limbs  like  an  apple  tree.  The  leaves 
are  pale  grayish  green,  about  an  inch  and  a 
half  long,  and  instead  of  being  divided  into 
clusters  they  are  single,  round,  sharp-pointed, 
and  rigid  like  spikes,  amid  which  in. the  spring 
the  red  flowers  glow  brightly.  The  cones  are 
only  about  two  inches  in  length  and  breadth, 
but  nearly  half  of  their  bulk  is  made  up  of 
sweet  nuts. 

This  fruitful  little  pine  grows  on  the  dry 
east  side  of  the  park,  along  the  margin  of  the 
Mono  sage  plain,  and  is  the  commonest  tree 
of  the  short  mountain  ranges  of  the  Great 
Basin.  Tens  of  thousands  of  acres  are  covered 
with  it,  forming  bountiful  orchards  for  the 
Red-man.  Being  so  low  and  accessible,  the 
cones  are  easily  beaten  off  with  poles,  and  the 

115 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

nuts  procured  by  roasting  until  the  scales  open. 
To  the  tribes  of  the  desert  and  sage  plains 
these  seeds  are  the  staff  of  life.  They  are  eaten 
either  raw  or  parched,  or  in  the  form  of  mush 
or  cakes  after  being  pounded  into  meal.  The 
time  of  nut  harvest  hi  the  autumn  is  the  In 
dian's  merriest  time  of  all  the  year.  An  in 
dustrious  squirrelish  family  can  gather  fifty 
or  sixty  bushels  in  a  single  month  before  the 
snow  comes,  and  then  their  bread  for  the  win 
ter  is  sure. 

The  white  pine  (Pinus  flexilis)  is  widely  dis 
tributed  through  the  Rocky  Mountains  and 
the  ranges  of  the  Great  Basin,  where  in  many 
places  it  grows  to  a  good  size,  and  is  an  im 
portant  timber  tree  where  none  better  is  to 
be  found.  In  the  park  it  is  sparsely  scattered 
along  the  eastern  flank  of  the  range  from 
Mono  Pass  southward,  above  the  nut  pine,  at 
an  elevation  of  from  eight  to  ten  thousand  feet, 
dwarfing  to  a  tangled  bush  near  the  timber- 
line,  but  under  favorable  conditions  attaining 
a  height  of  forty  or  fifty  feet,  with  a  diameter 
of  three  to  five.  The  long  branches  show  a 
tendency  to  sweep  out  in  bold  curves,  like 
those  of  the  mountain  and  sugar  pines  to 
which  it  is  closely  related.  The  needles  are  hi 
clusters  of  five,  closely  packed  on  the  ends  of 
the  branchlets.  The  cones  are  about  five 
no 


.      FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

inches  long,  —  the  smaller  ones  nearly  oval, 
the  larger  cylindrical.  But  the  most  interest 
ing  feature  of  the  tree  is  its  bloom,  the  vivid 
red  pistillate  flowers  glowing  among  the  leaves 
like  coals  of  fire. 

The  dwarfed  pine  or  white-barked  pine 
(Pinus  albicaulis)  is  sure  to  interest  every  ob 
server  on  account  of  its  curious  low  matted 
habit,  and  the  great  height  on  the  snowy 
mountains  at  which  it  bravely  grows.  It  forms 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  timber-line  on  both 
flanks  of  the  summit  mountains  —  if  so  lowly 
a  tree  can  be  called  timber  —  at  an  elevation 
of  ten  to  twelve  thousand  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea.  Where  it  is  first  met  on  the  lower 
limit  of  its  range  it  may  be  thirty  or  forty  feet 
high,  but  farther  .up  the  rocky  wind-swept 
slopes,  where  the  snow  lies  deep  and  heavy  for 
six  months  of  the  year,  it  makes  shaggy  clumps 
and  beds,  crinkled  and  pressed  flat,  over  which 
you  can  easily  walk.  Nevertheless  in  this 
crushed,  down-pressed,  felted  condition  it 
clings  hardily  to  life,  puts  forth  fresh  leaves 
every  spring  on  the  ends  of  its  tasseled  branch- 
lets*,  blooms  bravely  in  the  lashing  blasts  with 
abundance  of  gay  red  and  purple  flowers,  ma 
tures  its  seeds  in  the  short  summers,  and  often 
outlives  the  favored  giants  of  the  sun  lands 
far  below.  One  of  the  trees  that  I  examined 

117 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

was  only  about  three  feet  high,  with  a  stem 
six  inches  in  diameter  at  the  ground,  and 
branches  that  spread  out  horizontally  as  if 
they  had  grown  up  against  a  ceiling;  yet  it 
was  four  hundred  and  twenty-six  years  old, 
and  one  of  its  supple  branchlets,  about  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  in  diameter  inside  the  bark, 
was  seventy-five  years  old,  and  so  tough  that 
I  tied  it  into  knots.  At  the  age  of  this  dwarf 
many  of  the  sugar  and  yellow  pines  and  se 
quoias  are  seven  feet  in  diameter  and  over  two 
hundred  feet  high. 

In  detached  clumps  never  touched  by  fire 
the  fallen  needles  of  centuries  of  growth  make 
fine  elastic  mattresses  for  the  weary  moun 
taineer,  while  the  tasseled  branchlets  spread 
a  roof  over  him,  and  the  dead  roots,  half  resin, 
usually  found  in  abundance,  make  capital 
camp-fires,  unquenchable  in  thickest  storms  of 
rain  or  snow.  Seen  from  a  distance  the  belts 
and  patches  darkening  the  mountain  sides  look 
like  mosses  on  a  roof,  and  bring  to  mind  Dr. 
Johnson's  remarks  on  the  trees  of  Scotland. 
His  guide,  anxious  for  the  honor  of  Mull,  was 
still  talking  of  its  woods  and  pointing  tkem 
out.  "Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "I  saw  at  Tober- 
mory  what  they  called  a  wood,  which  I  un 
luckily  took  for  heath.  If  you  show  me  what 
I  shall  take  for  furze,  it  will  be  something." 

118 


OP^YO 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE   PARK 

The  mountain  pine  (Pinus  montipola)  is  far 
the  largest  of  the  Sierra  tre^^ountaineers. 
Climbing  nearly  as  high  as  ti^iwarf  albicaulis, 
it  is  still  a  giant  in  size,  b^Ki  and  strong,  stand 
ing  erect  on  the  storm^featen  peaks  and  ridges, 
tossing  its  cone-laden  branches  in  the  rough 
winds,  living  a  thousand  years,  and  reaching 
its  greatest  size  —  ninety  to  a  hundred  feet 
in  height,  six  to  eight  in  diameter  —  just 
where  other  trees,  its  companions,  are  dwarfed. 
But  it  is  not  able  to  endure  burial  in  snow  so 
long  as  the  albicaulis  and  flexilis.  Therefore, 
on  the  upper  limit  of  its  range  it  is  found  on 
slopes  which,  from  their  steepness  or  expos 
ure,  are  least  snowy.  Its  soft  graceful  beauty 
in  youth,  and  its  leaves,  cones,  and  outsweep- 
ing  feathery  branches  constantly  remind  you 
of  the  sugar  pine,  to  which  it  is  closely  allied. 
An  admirable  tree,  growing  nobler  in  form  and 
size  the  colder  and  balder  the  mountains  about 
it. 

The  giants  of  the  main  forest  in  the  favored 
middle  region  are  the  sequoia,  sugar  pine,  yel 
low  pine,  libocedrus,  Douglas  spruce,  and  the 
two  silver  firs.  The  park  sequoias  are  re 
stricted  to  two  small  groves,  a  few  miles  apart, 
on  the  Tuolumne  and  Merced  divide,  about 
seventeen  miles  from  Yosemite  Valley.  The 
Big  Oak  Flat  road  to  the  valley  runs  through 

119 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  Tuolumne  Grove,  the  Coulterville  through 
the  Merced.  The  more  famous  and  better 
known  Mariposa  Grove,  belonging  to  the  state, 
lies  near  the  southwest  corner  of  the  park,  a 
few  miles  above  Wawona. 

The  sugar  pine  (Pinus  Lambertiana)  is  first 
met  hi  the  park  in  open,  sunny,  flowery  woods, 
at  an  elevation  of  about  thirty-five  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea,  attains  full  development  at 
a  height  between  five  and  six  thousand  feet, 
and  vanishes  at  the  level  of  eight  thousand 
feet.  In  many  places,  especially  on  the  north 
ern  slopes  of  the  main  ridges  between  the  rivers, 
it  forms  the  bulk  of  the  forest,  but  mostly  it 
is  intimately  associated  with  its  noble  com 
panions,  above  which  it  towers  in  glorious 
majesty  on  every  hill,  ridge,  and  plateau  from 
one  extremity  of  the  range  to  the  other,  a  dis 
tance  of  five  hundred  miles,  —  the  largest, 
noblest,  and  most  beautiful  of  all  the  seventy 
or  eighty  species  of  pine  trees  in  the  world, 
and  of  all  the  conifers  second  only  to  King 
Sequoia. 

A  good  many  are  from  two  hundred  to  two 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  in  height,  with  a 
diameter  at  four  feet  from  the  ground  of  six 
to  eight  feet,  and  occasionally  a  grand  patri 
arch,  seven  or  eight  hundred  years  old,  is  found 
that  is  ten  or  even  twelve  feet  in  diameter 
120 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

and  two  hundred  and  forty  feet  high,  with  a 
magnificent  crown  seventy  feet  wide.  David 
Douglas,  who  discovered  "this  most  beauti 
ful  and  immensely  grand  tree"  in  the  fall  of 
1826  in  southern  Oregon,  says  that  the  largest 
of  several  that  had  been  blown  down,  "at 
three  feet  from  the  ground  was  fifty-seven  feet 
nine  inches  in  circumference"  (or  fully  eight 
een  feet  in  diameter);  "at  one  hundred  and 
thirty-four  feet,  seventeen  feet  five  inches; 
extreme  length,  two  hundred  and  forty-five 
feet."  Probably  for  fifty-seven  we  should  read 
thirty-seven  for  the  base  measurement,  which 
would  make  it  correspond  with  the  other  di 
mensions;  for  none  of  this  species  with  any 
thing  like  so  great  a  girth  has  since  been  seen. 
A  girth  of  even  thirty  feet  is  uncommon.  A 
fallen  specimen  that  I  measured  was  nine  feet 
three  inches  in  diameter  inside  the  bark  at 
four  feet  from  the  ground,  and  six  feet  in  di 
ameter  at  a  hundred  feet  from  the  ground.  A 
comparatively  young  tree,  three  hundred  and 
thirty  years  old,  that  had  been  cut  down, 
measured  seven  feet  across  the  stump,  was 
three  feet  three  inches  in  diameter  at  a  height 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  two  hundred 
and  ten  feet  in  length. 

The  trunk  is  a  round,  delicately  tapered 
shaft    with    finely    furrowed    purplish-brown 

121 


bark,  usually  free  of  limbs  for  a  hundred  feet 
or  more.  The  top  is  furnished  with  long  and 
comparatively  slender  branches,  which  sweep 
gracefully  downward  and  outward,  feathered 
with  short  tasseled  branchlets,  and  divided 
only  at  the  ends,  forming  a  palmlike  crown 
fifty  to  seventy-five  feet  wide,  but  without  the 
monotonous  uniformity  of  palm  crowns  or  of 
the  spires  of  most  conifers.  The  old  trees  are 
as  tellingly  varied  and  picturesque  as  oaks. 
No  two  are  alike,  and  we  are  tempted  to  stop 
and  admire  every  one  we  come  to,  whether  as 
it  stands  silent  in  the  calm  balsam-scented 
sunshine  or  waving  in  accord  with  enthusiastic 
storms.  The  leaves  are  about  three  or  four 
inches  long,  in  clusters  of  five,  finely  tem 
pered,  bright  lively  green,  and  radiant.  The 
flowers  are  but  little  larger  than  those  of  the 
dwarf  pine,  and  far  less  showy.  The  immense 
cylindrical  cones,  fifteen  to  twenty  or  even 
twenty-four  inches  long  and  three  in  diameter, 
hang  singly  or  in  clusters,  like  ornamental 
tassels,  at  the  ends  of  the  long  branches,  green, 
flushed  with  purple  on  the  sunward  side.  Like 
those  of  almost  all  the  pines  they  ripen  in  the 
autumn  of  the  second  season  from  the  flower, 
and  the  seeds  of  all  that  have  escaped  the  In 
dians,  bears,  and  squirrels  take  wing  and  fly 
to  their  places.  Then  the  cones  become  still 

122 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

more  effective  as  ornaments,  for  by  the  spread 
ing  of  the  scales  the  diameter  is  nearly  doubled, 
and  the  color  changes  to  a  rich  brown.  They 
remain  on  the  tree  the  following  winter  and 
summer;  therefore  few  fertile  trees  are  ever 
found  without  them.  Nor  even  after  they  fall 
is  the  beauty  work  of  these  grand  cones  done, 
for  they  make  a  fine  show  on  the  flowery, 
needle-strewn  ground.  The  wood  is  pale  yel 
low,  fine  in  texture,  and  deliciously  fragrant. 
The  sugar,  which  gives  name  to  the  tree,  exudes 
from  the  heart  wood  on  wounds  made  by  fire 
or  the  axe,  and  forms  irregular  crisp  white 
candy-like  masses.  To  the  taste  of  most  peo 
ple  it  is  as  good  as  maple  sugar,  though  it 
cannot  be  eaten  in  large  quantities. 

No  traveler,  whether  a  tree  lover  or  not,  will 
ever  forget  his  first  walk  in  a  sugar-pine  forest. 
The  majestic  crowns  approaching  one  another 
make  a  glorious  canopy,  through  the  feathery 
arches  of  which  the  sunbeams  pour,  silvering 
the  needles  and  gilding  the  stately  columns 
and  the  ground  into  a  scene  of  enchantment. 

The  yellow  pine  (Pinus  ponderosa)  is  sur 
passed  in  size  and  nobleness  of  port  only  by 
its  kingly  companion.  Full.-grown  trees  in  tho 
main  forest  where  it  is  associated  with  the 
sugar  pine,  are  about  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  feet  high,  with  a  diameter  of  five  to  six 

123 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

feet,  though  much  larger  specimens  may  easily 
be  found.  The  largest  I  ever  measured  was  a 
little  over  eight  feet  in  diameter  four  feet  above 
the  ground,  and  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
high.  Where  there  is  plenty  of  sunshine  and 
other  conditions  are  favorable,  it  is  a  massive 
symmetrical  spire,  formed  of  a  strong  straight 
shaft  clad  with  innumerable  branches,  which 
are  divided  again  and  again  into  stout  branch- 
lets  laden  with  bright  shining  needles  and 
green  or  purple  cones.  Where  the  growth  is  at 
all  close  half  or  more  of  the  trunk  is  branch 
less.  The  species  attains  its  greatest  size  and 
most  majestic  form  in  open  groves  on  the  deep, 
well-drained  soil  of  lake  basins  at  an  elevation 
of  about  four  thousand  feet.  There  nearly  all 
the  old  trees  are  over  two  hundred  feet  high, 
and  the  heavy,  leafy,  much-divided  branches 
sumptuously  clothe  the  trunk  almost  to  the 
ground.  Such  trees  are  easily  climbed,  and  in 
going  up  the  winding  stairs  of  knotty  limbs 
to  the  top  you  will  gain  a  most  telling  and 
memorable  idea  of  the  height,  the  richness  and 
intricacy  of  the  branches,  and  the  marvelous 
abundance  and  beauty  of  the  long  shining 
elastic  foliage.  In  tranquil  weather,  you  will 
see  the  firm  outstanding  needles  in  calm  con 
tent,  shimmering  and  throwing  off  keen  min 
ute  rays  of  light  like  lances  of  ice;  but  when 

124 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

heavy  winds  are  blowing,  the  strong  towers 
bend  and  wave  in  the  blast  with  eager  wide 
awake  enthusiasm,  and  every  tree  in  the  grove 
glows  and  flashes  in  one  mass  of  white  sunfire. 
Both  the  yellow  and  sugar  pines  grow  rap 
idly  on  good  soil  where  they  are  not  crowded. 
At  the  age  of  a  hundred  years  they  are  about 
two  feet  in  diameter  and  a  hundred  or  more 
high.  They  are  then  very  handsome,  though 
very  unlike:  the  sugar  pine,  lithe,  feathery, 
closely  clad  with  ascending  branches;  the 
yellow,  open,  showing  its  axis  from  the  ground 
to  the  top,  its  whorled  branches  but  little 
divided  as  yet,  spreading  and  turning  up  at 
the  ends  with  magnificent  tassels  of  long  stout 
bright  needles,  the  terminal  shoot  with  its 
leaves  being  often  three  or  four  feet  long  and 
a  foot  and  a  half  wide,  the  most  hopeful  look 
ing  and  the  handsomest  tree-top  in  the  woods. 
But  instead  of  increasing,  like  its  companion, 
in  wildness  and  individuality  of  form  with  age, 
it  becomes  more  evenly  and  compactly  spiry. 
The  bark  is  usually  very  thick,  four  to  six 
inches  at  the  ground,  and  arranged  in  large 
plates,  some  of  them  on  the  lower  part  of  the 
trunk  four  or  five  feet  long  and  twelve  to 
eighteen  inches  wide,  forming  a  strong  de 
fense  against  fire.  The  leaves  are  in  threes, 
and  from  three  inches  to  a  foot  long.  The 

125 


OUR   NATIONAL  PARKS 

flowers  appear  in  May:  the  staminate  pink  or 
brown,  in  conspicuous  clusters  two  or  three 
inches  wide;  the  pistillate  crimson,  a  fourth 
of  an  inch  wide,  and  mostly  hidden  among 
the  leaves  on  the  tips  of  the  branchlets.  The 
cones  vary  from  about  three  to  ten  inches  in 
length,  twro  to  five  in  width,  and  grow  in  ses 
sile  outstanding  clusters  near  the  ends  of  the 
upturned  branchlets. 

Being  able  to  endure  fire  and  hunger  and 
many  climates  this  grand  tree  is  widely  dis 
tributed:  eastward  from  the  coast  across  the 
broad  Rocky  Mountain  ranges  to  the  Black 
Hills  of  Dakota,  a  distance  of  more  than  a 
thousand  miles,  and  southward  from  British 
Columbia,  near  latitude  51°,  to  Mexico,  about 
fifteen  hundred  miles.  South  of  the  Columbia 
River  it  meets  the  sugar  pine,  and  accompa 
nies  it  all  the  way  down  along  the  Coast  and 
Cascade  mountains  and  the  Sierra  and  south 
ern  ranges  to  the  mountains  of  the  peninsula 
of  LowTer  California,  where  they  find  their 
southmost  homes  together.  Pinus  ponderosa 
is  extremely  variable,  and  much  bother  it  gives 
botanists  who  try  to  catch  and  confine  the 
unmanageable  proteus  in  two  or  a  dozen 
species,  —  Jeffreyi,  deflexa,  Apacheca  latifo- 
lia,  etc.  But  in  all  its  wanderings,  in  every 
form,  it  manifests  noble  strength.  Clad  in 

126 


thick  bark  like  a  warrier  in  mail,  it  extends  its 
bright  ranks  over  all  the  high  ranges  of  the 
wild  side  of  the  continent:  flourishes  in  the 
drenching  fog  and  rain  of  the  northern  coast 
at  the  level  of  the  sea,  in  the  snow-laden 
blasts  of  the  mountains,  and  the  white  glaring 
sunshine  of  the  interior  plateaus  and  plains, 
on  the  borders  of  mirage-haunted  deserts, 
volcanoes,  and  lava  beds,  waving  its  bright 
plumes  in  the  hot  winds  undaunted,  blooming 
every  year  for  centuries,  and  tossing  big  ripe 
cones  among  the  cinders  and  ashes  of  nature's 
hearths. 

The  Douglas  spruce  grows  with  the  great 
pines,  especially  on  the  cool  north  sides  of 
ridges  and  canons,  and  is  here  nearly  as  large 
as  the  yellow  pine,  but  less  abundant.  The 
wood  is  strong  and  tough,  the  bark  thick  and 
deeply  furrowed,  and  on  vigorous,  quick- 
growing  trees  the  stout,  spreading  branches 
are  covered  with  innumerable  slender,  sway 
ing  sprays,  handsomely  clothed  with  short 
leaves.  The  flowers  are  about  three  fourths  of 
an  inch  in  length,  red  or  greenish,  not  so  showy 
as  the  pendulous  bracted  cones.  But  in  June 
and  July,  when  the  young  bright  yellow  leaves 
appear,  the  entire  tree  seems  to  be  covered 
with  bloom. 

It  is  this  grand  tree  that  forms  the  famous 

127 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

forests  of  western  Oregon,  Washington,  and 
the  adjacent  coast  regions  of  British  Columbia, 
where  it  attains  its  greatest  size  and  is  most 
abundant,  making  almost  pure  forests  over 
thousands  of  square  miles,  dark  and  close  and 
almost  inaccessible,  many  of  the  trees  towering 
with  straight,  imperceptibly  tapered  shafts  to 
a  height  of  three  hundred  feet,  their  heads 
together  shutting  out  the  light,  —  one  of  the 
largest,  most  widely  distributed,  and  most 
important  of  all  the  Western  giants. 

The  incense  cedar  (Libocedrus  decurrens}, 
when  full  grown,  is  a  magnificent  tree,  one 
hundred  and  twenty  to  nearly  two  hundred 
feet  high,  five  to  eight  and  occasionally  twelve 
feet  in  diameter,  with  cinnamon-colored  bark 
and  warm  yellow-green  foliage,  and  in  general 
appearance  like  an  arbor-vitae.  It  is  distrib 
uted  through  the  main  forest  from  an  eleva 
tion  of  three  to  six  thousand  feet,  and  in  shel 
tered  portions  of  canons  on  the  warm  sides  to 
seven  thousand  five  hundred.  In  midwinter, 
when  most  trees  are  asleep,  it  puts  forth  its 
flowers.  The  pistillate  are  pale  green  and  in 
conspicuous;  but  the  staminate  are  yellow, 
about  one  fourth  of  an  inch  long,  and  are  pro 
duced  in  myriads,  tingeing  all  the  branches 
with  gold,  and  making  the  tree  as  it  stands 
in  the  snow  look  like  a  gigantic  goldenrod. 

128 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

Though  scattered  rather  sparsely  amongst  its 
companions  in  the  open  woods,  it  is  seldom 
out  of  sight,  and  its  bright  brown  shafts  and 
warm  masses  of  plumy  foliage  make  a  striking 
feature  of  the  landscape.  While  young  and 
growing  fast  in  an  open  situation  no  other  tree 
of  its  size  in  the  park  forms  so  exactly  tapered 
a  pyramid.  The  branches,  outspread  in  flat 
plumes  and  beautifully  fronded,  sweep  grace 
fully  downward  and  outward,  except  those 
near  the  top,  which  aspire;  the  lowest  droop 
to  the  ground,  overlapping  one  another,  shed 
ding  off  rain  and  snow,  and  making  fine  tents 
for  storm-bound  mountaineers  and  birds.  In 
old  age  it  becomes  irregular  and  picturesque, 
mostly  from  accidents:  running  fires,  heavy 
wet  snow  breaking  the  branches,  lightning 
shattering  the  top,  compelling  it  to  try  to  make 
new  summits  out  of  side  branches,  etc.  Still 
it  frequently  lives  more  than  a  thousand  years, 
invincibly  beautiful,  and  worthy  its  place  be 
side  the  Douglas  spruce  and  the  great  pines. 

This  unrivaled  forest  is  still  further  enriched 
by  two  majestic  silver  firs,  Abies'  magnified 
and  Abies  concolor,  bands  of  which  come  down 
from  the  main  fir  belt  by  cool  shady  ridges  and 
glens.  Abies  magnified  is  the  noblest  of  its  race, 
growing  on  moraines,  at  an  elevation  of  seven 
thousand  to  eight  thousand  five  hundred  feet 

129 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

above  the  sea,  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  or 
two  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  and  five  to  seven 
in  diameter;  and  with  these  noble  dimensions 
there  is  a  richness  and  symmetry  and  perfec 
tion  of  finish  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  tree 
in  the  Sierra.  The  branches  are  whorled,  in 
fives  mostly,  and  stand  out  from  the  straight 
red  purple  bole  in  level  or,  on  old  trees,  in 
drooping  collars,  every  branch  regularly  pin 
nated  like  fern  fronds,  and  clad  with  silvery 
needles,  making  broad  plumes  singularly  rich 
and  sumptuous. 

The  flowers  are  in  then*  prime  about  the 
middle  of  June :  the  staminate  red,  growing  on 
the  underside  of  the  branchlets  in  crowded 
profusion,  giving  a  rich  color  to  nearly  all  the 
tree;  the  pistillate  greenish  yellow  tinged  with 
pink,  standing  erect  on  the  upper  side  of  the 
topmost  branches;  while  the  tufts  of  young 
leaves,  about  as  brightly  colored  as  those  of  the 
Douglas  spruce,  push  out  their  fragrant  brown 
buds  a  few  weeks  later,  making  another  grand 
show. 

The  cones  mature  in  a  single  season  from 
the  flowers.  When  full  grown  they  are  about 
six  to  eight  inches  long,  three  or  four  in  di 
ameter,  blunt,  massive,  cylindrical,  greenish 
gray  in  color,  covered  with  a  fine  silvery  down, 
and  beaded  with  transparent  balsam,  very 

130 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

rich  and  precious-looking,  standing  erect  like 
casks  on  the  topmost  branches.  If  possible, 
the  inside  of  the  cone  is  still  more  beautiful. 
The  scales  and  bracts  are  tinged  with  red, 
and  the  seed  wings  are  purple  with  bright  iri 
descence. 

Abies  concolor,  the  white  silver  fir,  grows 
best  about  two  thousand  feet  lower  than  the 
magnifica.  It  is  nearly  as  large,  but  the 
branches  are  less  regularly  pinnated  and 
whorled,  the  leaves  are  longer,  and  instead  of 
standing  out  around  the  branchlets  or  turning 
up  and  clasping  them  they  are  mostly  arranged 
in  two  horizontal  or  ascending  rows,  and  the 
cones  are  less  than  half  as  large.  The  bark 
of  the  magnifica  is  reddish  purple  and  closely 
furrowed,  that  of  the  concolor  is  gray  and 
widely  furrowed,  —  a  noble  pair,  rivaled  only 
by  the  Abies  grandis,  amabilis,  and  nobilis  of 
the  forests  of  Oregon,  Washington,  and  the 
Northern  California  Coast  Range.  But  none 
of  these  northern  species  form  pure  forests  that 
in  extent  and  beauty  approach  those  of  the 
Sierra. 

The  seeds  of  the  conifers  are  curiously 
formed  and  colored,  white,  brown,  purple, 
plain  or  spotted  like  birds'  eggs,  and  excepting 
the  juniper  they  are  all  handsomely  and  in 
geniously  winged  with  reference  to  their  dis- 

131 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tribution.  They  are  a  sort  of  cunningly  de 
vised  flying  machines,  —  one-winged  birds, 
birds  with  but  one  feather,  —  and  they  take 
but  one  flight,  all  save  those  which,  after  fly 
ing  from  the  cone-nest  in  calm  weather,  chance 
to  alight  on  branches  where  they  have  to  wait 
for  a  wind.  And  though  these  seed  wings  are 
intended  for  only  a  moment's  use,  they  are 
as  thoughtfully  colored  and  fashioned  as  the 
wings  of  birds,  and  require  from  one  to  two 
seasons  to  grow.  Those  of  the  pine,  fir,  hem 
lock,  and  spruce  are  curved  in  such  manner 
that,  in  being  dragged  through  the  air  by  the 
seeds,  they  are  made  to  revolve,  whirling  the 
seeds  in  a  close  spiral,  and  sustaining  them 
long  enough  to  allow  the  winds  to  carry  them 
to  considerable  distances^  —  a  style  of  flying 
full  of  quick  merry  motion,  strikingly  con 
trasted  to  the  sober  dignified  sailing  of  seeds 
on  tufts  of  feathery  pappus.  Surely  no  mer 
rier  adventurers  ever  set  out  to  seek  their  for 
tunes.  Only  in  the  fir  woods  are  large  flocks 
seen;  for,  unlike  the  cones  of  the  pine,  spruce, 
hemlock,  etc.,  which  let  the  seeds  escape  slowly, 
one  or  two  at  a  time,  by  spreading  the  scales, 
the  fir  cones  when  ripe  fall  to  pieces,  and  let 
nearly  all  go  at  once  in  favorable  weather.  All 
along  the  Sierra  for  hundreds  of  miles,  on  dry 
breezy  autumn  days,  the  sunny  spaces  in  the 

132 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

woods  among  the  colossal  spires  are  in  a  whirl 
with  these  shining  purple-winged  wanderers, 
notwithstanding  the  harvesting  squirrels  have 
been  working  at  the  top  of  their  speed  for 
weeks  trying  to  cut  off  every  cone  before  the 
seeds  were  ready  to  swarm  and  fly.  Sequoia 
seeds  have  flat  wings,  and  glint  and  glance 
in  their  flight  like  a  boy's  kite.  The  dispersal 
of  juniper  seeds  is  effected  by  the  plum  and 
cherry  plan  of  hiring  birds  at  the  cost  of  their 
board,  and  thus  obtaining  the  use  of  a  pair  of 
extra  good  wings. 

Above  the  great  fir  belt,  and  below  the 
ragged  beds  and  fringes  of  the  dwarf  pine, 
stretch  the  broad  dark  forests  of  Pinus  con- 
torta,  var.  Murrayana,  usually  called  tama 
rack  pine.  On  broad  fields  of  moraine  material 
it  forms  nearly  pure  forests  at  an  elevation  of 
about  eight  or  nine  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  where  it  is  a  small,  well-proportioned  tree, 
fifty  or  sixty  feet  high  and  one  or  two  in  di 
ameter,  with  thin  gray  bark,  crooked  much- 
divided  straggling  branches,  short  needles  in 
clusters  of  two,  bright  yellow  and  crimson 
flowers,  and  small  prickly  cones.  The  very 
largest  I  ever  measured  was  ninety  feet  in 
height,  and  a  little  over  six  feet  in  diameter 
four  feet  above  the  ground.  On  moist  well- 
drained  soil  in  sheltered  hollows  along  stream- 

133 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

sides  it  grows  tall  and  slender  with  ascending 
branches,  making  graceful  arrowy  spires  fifty 
to  seventy-five  feet  high,  with  stems  only  five 
or  six  inches  thick. 

The  most  extensive  forest  of  this  pine  in  the 
park  lies  to  the  north  of  the  Big  Tuolumne 
Meadows,  —  a  famous  deer  pasture  and  hunt 
ing  ground  of  the  Mono  Indians.  For  miles 
over  wide  moraine  beds  there  is  an  even, 
nearly  pure  growth,  broken  only  by  glacier 
meadows,  around  which  the  trees  stand  in 
trim  array,  their  sharp  spires  showing  to  fine 
advantage  both  in  green  flowery  summer  and 
white  winter.  On  account  of  the  closeness  of 
its  growth  in  many  places,  and  the  thinness 
and  gumminess  of  its  bark,  it  is  easily  killed 
by  running  fires,  which  work  widespread  de 
struction  in  its  ranks;  but  a  new  generation 
rises  quickly  from  the  ashes,  for  all  or  a  part 
of  its  seeds  are  held  in  reserve  for  a  year  or  two 
or  many  years,  and  when  the  tree  is  killed  the 
cones  open  and  the  seeds  are  scattered  over 
the  burned  ground  like  those  of  the  attenuate,. 

Next  to  the  mountain  hemlock  and  the 
dwarf  pine  this  species  best  endures  burial  in 
heavy  snow,  while  in  braving  hunger  and  cold 
on  rocky  ridgetops  it  is  not  surpassed  by  any. 
It  is  distributed  from  Alaska  to  southern  Cali 
fornia,  and  inland  across  the  Rocky  Moun-* 

134 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

tains,  taking  many  forms  in  accordance  with 
demands  of  climate,  soil,  rivals,  and  enemies; 
growing  patiently  in  bogs  and  on  sand  dunes 
beside  the  sea  where  it  is  pelted  with  salt  scud, 
on  high  snowy  mountains  and  down  in  the 
throats  of  extinct  volcanoes;  springing  up 
with  invincible  vigor  after  every  devastating 
fire  and  extending  its  conquests  farther. 

The  sturdy  storm-enduring  red  cedar  (Juni- 
perus  ocddentalis)  delights  to  dwell  on  the 
tops  of  granite  domes  and  ridges  and  glacier 
pavements  of  the  upper  pine  belt,  at  an  eleva 
tion  of  seven  to  ten  thousand  feet,  where  it  can 
get  plenty  of  sunshine  and  snow  and  elbow- 
room  without  encountering  quick-growing  over 
shadowing  rivals.  They  never  make  anything 
like  a  forest,  seldom  come  together  even  in 
groves,  but  stand  out  separate  and  independ 
ent  in  the  wind,  clinging  by  slight  joints  to 
the  rock,  living  chiefly  on  snow  and  thin  ah*, 
and  maintaining  tough  health  on  this  diet  for 
two  thousand  years  or  more,  every  feature  and 
gesture  expressing  steadfast  dogged  endurance. 
The  largest  are  usually  about  six  or  eight  feet 
in  diameter,  and  fifteen  or  twenty  in  height. 
A  very  few  are  ten  feet  in,  diameter,  and  on 
isolated  moraine  heaps  forty  to  sixty  feet  in 
height.  Many  are  mere  stumps,  as  broad  as 
high,  broken  by  avalanches  and  lightning, 

135 


picturesquely  tufted  with  dense  gray  scalelike 
foliage,  and  giving  no  hint  of  dying.  The 
staminate  flowers  are  like  those  of  the  libo- 
cedrus,  but  smaller;  the  pistillate  are  incon 
spicuous.  The  wood  is*red,  fine-grained,  and 
fragrant;  the  bark  bright  cinnamon  and  red, 
and  in  thrifty  trees  is  strikingly  braided  and 
reticulated,  flaking  off  in  thin  lustrous  rib 
bons,  which  the  Indians  used  to  weave  into 
matting  and  coarse  cloth.  These  brown  un 
shakable  pillars,  standing  solitary  on  polished 
pavements  with  bossy  masses  of  foliage  in 
their  arms,  are  exceedingly  picturesque,  and 
never  fail  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  artist.  They 
seem  sole  survivors  of  some  ancient  race, 
wholly  unacquainted  with  their  neighbors. 

I  have  spent  a  good  deal  of  time,  trying  to 
determine  their  age,  but  on  account  of  dry  rot 
which  honeycombs  most  of  the  old  ones,  I 
never  got  a  complete  count  of  the  largest. 
Some  are  undoubtedly  more  than  two  thou 
sand  years  old;  for  though  on  good  moraine 
soil  they  grow  about  as  fast  as  oaks,  on  bare 
pavements  and  smoothly  glaciated  overswept 
granite  ridges  in  the  dome  region  they  grow 
extremely  slowly.  One  on  the  Starr  King 
ridge,  only  two  feet  eleven  inches  in  diameter, 
was  eleven  hundred  and  forty  years  old.  An 
other  on  the  same  ridge,  only  one  foot  seven 

136 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

and  a  half  inches  in  diameter,  had  reached 
the  age  of  eight  hundred  and  thirty-four  years. 
The  first  fifteen  inches  from  the  bark  of  a 
medium-sized  tree  —  six  feet  in  diameter  —  on 
the  north  Tenaya  pavement  had  eight  hun 
dred  and  fifty-nine  layers  of  wood,  or  fifty- 
seven  to  the  inch.  Beyond  this  the  count  was 
stopped  by  dry  rot  and  scars  of  old  wounds. 
The  largest  I  examined  was  thirty-three  feet 
in  girth,  or  nearly  ten  in  diameter;  and  though 
I  failed  to  get  anything  like  a  complete  count, 
I  learned  enough  from  this  and  many  other 
specimens  to  convince  me  that  most  of  the 
trees  eight  to  ten  feet  thick  standing  on  pave 
ments  are  more  than  twenty  centuries  of  age 
rather  than  less.  Barring  accidents,  for  all  I 
can  see,  they  would  live  forever.  When  killed, 
they  waste  out  of  existence  about  as  slowly 
as  granite.  Even  when  overthrown  by  ava 
lanches,  after  standing  so  long,  they  refuse  to 
lie  at  rest,  leaning  stubbornly  on  their  big  el 
bows  as  if  anxious  to  rise,  and  while  a  single  root 
holds  to  the  rock  putting  forth  fresh  leaves 
with  a  grim  never-say-die  and  never-lie-down 
expression. 

As  the  juniper  is  the  most  stubborn  and 
unshakable  of  trees,  the  mountain  hemlock 
(Tsuga  Mertensiana)  is  the  most  graceful  and 
pliant  and  sensitive,  responding  to  the  slight- 

137 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

est  touches  of  the  wind.  Until  it  reaches  a 
height  of  fifty  or  sixty  feet  it  is  sumptuously 
clothed  down  to  the  ground  with  drooping 
branches,  which  are  divided  into  countless 
delicate  waving  sprays,  grouped  and  arranged 
in  most  indescribably  beautiful  ways,  and 
profusely  sprinkled  with  handsome  brown 
cones.  The  flowers  also  are  peculiarly  beauti 
ful  and  effective:  the  pistillate  very. dark  rich 
purple;  the  staminate  blue  of  so  fine  and  pure  a 
tone  that  the  best  azure  of  the  high  sky  seems 
to  be  condensed  in  them. 

Though  apparently  the  most  delicate  and 
feminine  of  all  the  mountain  trees,  it  grows 
best  where  the  snow  lies  deepest,  at  an  eleva 
tion  of  from  nine  thousand  to  ninety-five  hun 
dred  feet,  in  hollows  on  the  northern  slopes  of 
mountains  and  ridges.  But  under  all  circum 
stances  and  conditions  of  weather  and  soil, 
sheltered  from  the  main  currents  of  the  winds 
or  in  blank  exposure  to  them,  well  fed  or 
starved,  it  is  always  singularly  graceful  in 
habit.  Even  at  its  highest  limit  in  the  park, 
ten  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea 
on  exposed  ridgetops,  where  it  crouches  and 
huddles  close  together  in  low  thickets  like 
those  of  the  dwarf  pine,  it  still  contrives  to  put 
forth  its  sprays  and  branches  in  forms  of  irre 
pressible  beauty,  while  on  moist  well-drained 

138 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

moraines  it  displays  a  perfectly  tropical  luxuri 
ance  of  foliage,  flower,  and  fruit. 

In  the  first  winter  storms  the  snow  is  often 
times  soft,  and  lodges  in  the  dense  leafy 
branches,  pressing  them  down  against  the 
trunk,  and  the  slender  drooping  axis  bends  lower 
and  lower  as  the  load  increases,  until  the  top 
touches  the  ground  and  an  ornamental  arch  is 
made.  Then,  as  storm  succeeds  storm  and 
snow  is  heaped  on  snow,  the  whole  tree  is  at 
last  buried,  not  again  to  see  the  light  or  move 
leaf  or  limb  until  set  free  by  the  spring  thaws 
in  June  or  July.  Not  the  young  saplings  only 
are  thus  carefully  covered  and  put  to  sleep  in 
the  whitest  of  white  beds  for  five  or  six  months 
of  the  year,  but  trees  thirty  and  forty  feet  high. 
From  April  to  May,  when  the  snow  is  com 
pacted,  you  may  ride  over  the  prostrate  groves 
without  seeing  a  single  branch  or  leaf  of  them. 
In  the  autumn  they  are  full  of  merry  life,  when 
Clark  crows,  squirrels,  and  chipmunks  are 
gathering  the  abundant  crop  of  seeds  while  the 
deer  rest  beneath  the  thick  concealing  branches. 
The  finest  grove  in  the  park  is  near  Mount 
Conness,  and  the  trail  from  the  Tuolumne 
soda  springs  to  the  mountain  runs  through  it. 
Many  of  the  trees  in  this  grove  are  three  to 
four  or  five  feet  in  diameter  and  about  a  hun 
dred  feet  high. 

139 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  mountain  hemlock  is  widely  distributed 
from  near  the  south  extremity  of  the  high 
Sierra  northward  along  the  Cascade  Moun 
tains  of  Oregon  and  Washington  and  the  coast 
ranges  of  British  Columbia  to  Alaska,  where  it 
was  first  discovered  in  1827.  Its  northmost 
limit,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  is  in  the  icy 
fiords  of  Prince  William's  Sound  in  latitude 
61°,  where  it  forms  pure  forests  at  the  level  of 
the  sea,  growing  tall  and  majestic  on  the  banks 
of  the  great  glaciers,  waving  in  accord  with 
the  mountain  winds  and  the  thunder  of  the 
falling  icebergs.  Here  as  in  the  Sierra  it  is  in 
effably  beautiful,  the  very  loveliest  evergreen 
in  America. 

Of  the  round-headed  dicotyledonous  trees 
in  the  park  the  most  influential  are  the  black 
and  goldcup  oaks.  They  occur  in  some  parts 
of  the  main  forest  belt,  scattered  among  the 
big  pines  like  a  heavier  chaparral,  but  form 
extensive  groves  and  reach  perfect  develop 
ment  only  hi  the  Yosemite  valleys  and  flats  of 
the  main  canons.  The  California  black  oak 
(Quercus  Calif ornicd)  is  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  beautiful  of  the  Western  oaks,  attaining 
under  favorable  conditions  a  height  of  sixty 
to  a  hundred  feet,  with  a  trunk  three  to  seven 
feet  in  diameter,  wide-spreading  picturesque 
branches,  and  smooth  lively  green  foliage 

140 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

handsomely  scalloped,  purple  in  the  spring, 
yellow  and  red  hi  autumn.  It  grows  best  in 
sunny  open  groves  on  ground  covered  with 
ferns,  chokecherry,  brier  rose,  rubus,  mints, 
goldenrods,  etc.  Few,  if  any,  of  the  famous  oak 
groves  of  Europe,  however  extensive,  surpass 
these  in  the  size  and  strength  and  bright,  airy 
beauty  of  the  trees,  the  color  and  fragrance 
of  the  vegetation  beneath  them,  the  quality  of 
the  light  that  fills  their  leafy  arches,  and  in 
the  grandeur  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  The 
finest  grove  in  the  park  is  in  one*  of  the  little 
Yosemite  valleys  of  the  Tuolumne  Canon,  a 
few  miles  above  Hetch-Hetchy. 

The  mountain  live-oak,  or  goldcup  oak 
(Quercus  chrysolepis) ,  forms  extensive  groves 
on  earthquake  and  avalanche  taluses  and  ter 
races  in  canons  and  Yosemite  valleys,  from 
about  three  to  five  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea.  In  tough,  sturdy,  unwedgeable  strength 
this  is  the  oak  of  oaks.  In  general  appearance 
it  resembles  the  great  live-oak  of  the  South 
ern  states.  It  has  pale  gray  bark,  a  short,  un 
even,  heavily  buttressed  trunk  which  usually 
divides  a  few  feet  above  the  ground  into  strong 
wide-reaching  limbs,  forming  noble  arches, 
and  ending  in  an  intricate  maze  of  small 
branches  and  sprays,  the  outer  ones  frequently 
drooping  in  long  tresses  to  the  ground  like 

141 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

those  of  the  weeping  willow,  covered  with  small 
simple  polished  leaves,  making  a  canopy  broad 
and  bossy,  on  which  the  sunshine  falls  in  glori 
ous  brightness.  The  acorn  cups  are  shallow, 
thick-walled,  and  covered  with  yellow  fuzzy 
dust.  The  flowers  appear  in  May  and  June 
with  a  profusion  of  pollened  tresses,  followed 
by  the  bronze-colored  young  leaves. 

No  tree  in  the  park  is  a  better  measure  of 
altitude.  In  canons,  at  an  elevation  of  four 
thousand  feet,  you  may  easily  find  a  tree  six 
or  eight  feet  in  diameter;  and  at  the  head  of 
a  side  canon,  three  thousand  feet  higher,  up 
which  you  can  climb  in  less  than  two  hours, 
you  find  the  knotty  giant  dwarfed  to  a  slender 
shrub,  with  leaves  like  those  of  huckleberry 
bushes,  still  bearing  acorns,  and  seemingly 
contented,  forming  dense  patches  of  chaparral, 
on  the  top  of  which  you  may  make  your  bed 
and  sleep  softly  like  a  Highlander  in  heather. 
About  a  thousand  feet  higher  it  is  still  smaller, 
making  fringes  about  a  foot  high  around 
boulders  and  along  seams  in  pavements  and 
the  brows  of  canons,  giving  hand-holds  here 
and  there  on  cliffs  hard  to  climb.  The  largest 
I  have  measured  were  from  twenty-five  to 
twenty-seven  feet  in  girth,  fifty  to  sixty  feet 
high,  and  the  spread  of  the  limbs  was  about 
double  the  height. 

142 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

The  principal  riverside  trees  are  poplar, 
alder,  willow,  broad-leaved  maple,  and  Nut- 
tail's  flowering  dogwood.  The  poplar  (Populus 
trichocarpa) ,  often  called  balm  of  Gilead  from 
the  gum  on  its  buds,  is  a  tall,  stately  tree, 
towering  above  its  companions  and  gracefully 
embowering  the  banks  of  the  main  streams 
at  an  elevation  of  about  four  thousand  feet. 
Its  abundant  foliage  turns  bright  yellow  in 
the  fall,  and  the  Indian-summer  sunshine  sifts 
through  it  in  delightful  tones  over  the  slow- 
gliding  waters  when  they  are  at  their  lowest 
ebb. 

The  flowering  dogwood  is  brighter  still  in 
these  brooding  days,  for  every  branch  of  its 
broad  head  is  then  a  brilliant  crimson  flame. 
In  the  spring,  when  the  streams  are  in  flood, 
it  is  the  whitest  of  trees,  white  as  a  snow  bank 
with  its  magnificent  flowers  four  to  eight 
inches  in  width,  making  a  wonderful  show, 
and  drawing  swarms  of  moths  and  butterflies. 

The  broad-leaved  maple  is  usually  found  in 
the  coolest  boulder-choked  canons,  where  the 
streams  are  gray  and  white  with  foam,  over 
which  it  spreads  its  branches  in  beautiful 
arches  from  bank  to  bank,  forming  leafy  tun 
nels  full  of  soft  green  light  and  spray,  —  fav 
orite  homes  of  the  water-ouzel.  Around  the 
glacier  lakes,  two  or  three  thousand  feet  higher, 

143 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  common  aspen  grows  in  fringing  lines  and 
groves  which  are  brilliantly  colored  in  autumn, 
reminding  you  of  the  color  glory  of  the  East 
ern  woods. 

Scattered  here  and  there  or  in  groves  the 
botanist  will  find  a  few  other  trees,  mostly 
small,  —  the  mountain  mahogany,  cherry, 
chestnut-oak,  laurel,  and  nutmeg.  The  Cali 
fornia  nutmeg  (Tumion  Calif ornicum)  is  a 
handsome  evergreen,  belonging  to  the  yew 
family,  with  pale  bark,  prickly  leaves,  fruit 
like  a  green-gage  plum,  and  seed  like  a  nut 
meg.  One  of  the  best  groves  of  it  in  the  park 
is  at  the  Cascades  below  Yosemite. 

But  the  noble  oaks  and  all  these  rock-shad 
ing,  stream-embowering  trees  are  as  nothing 
amid  the  vast  abounding  billowy  forests  of 
conifers.  During  my  first  years  in  the  Sierra 
I  was  ever  calling  on  everybody  within  reach 
to  admire  them,  but  I  found  no  one  half  warm 
enough  until  Emerson  came.  I  had  read  his 
essays,  and  felt  sure  that  of  all  men  he  would 
best  interpret  the  sayings  of  these  noble  moun 
tains  and  trees.  Nor  was  my  faith  weakened 
when  I  met  him  in  Yosemite.  He  seemed  as 
serene  as  a  sequoia,  his  head  in  the  empyrean ; 
and  forgetting  his  age,  plans,  duties,  ties  of 
every  sort,  I  proposed  an  immeasurable  camp 
ing  trip  back  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 

144 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

He  seemed  anxious  to  go,  but  considerately 
mentioned  his  party.  I  said:  "Never  mind. 
The  mountains  are  calling;  run  away,  and  let 
plans  and  parties  and  dragging  lowland  duties 
all  'gang  tapsal-teerie.'  We'll  go  up  a  canon 
singing  your  own  song,  'Good-by,  proud 
world!  I'm  going  home,'  in  divine  earnest. 
Up  there  lies  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth; 
let  us  go  to  the  show."  But  alas,  it  was  too 
late,  —  too  near  the  sundown  of  his  life.  The 
shadows  were  growing  long,  and  he  leaned  on 
his  friends.  His  party,  full  of  indoor  philosophy, 
failed  to  see  the  natural  beauty  and  fullness 
of  promise  of  my  wild  plan,  and  laughed  at  it  in 
good-natured  ignorance,  as  if  it  were  neces 
sarily  amusing  to  imagine  that  Boston  people 
might  be  led  to  accept  Sierra  manifestations  of 
God  at  the  price  of  rough  camping.  Anyhow, 
they  would  have  none  of  it,  and  held  Mr. 
Emerson  to  the  hotels  and  trails. 

After  spending  only  five  tourist  days  in 
Yosemite  he  was  led  away,  but  I  saw  him  two 
days  more;  for  I  was  kindly  invited  to  go  with 
the  party  as  far  as  the  Mariposa  big  trees.  I 
told  Mr.  Emerson  that  I  would  gladly  go  to 
the  sequoias  with  him,  if  he  would  camp  in  the 
grove.  He  consented  heartily,  and  I  felt  sure 
that  we  would  have  at  least  one  good  wild 
memorable  night  around  a  sequoia  camp-fire. 

145 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Next  day  we  rode  through  the  magnificent 
forests  of  the  Merced  basin,  and  I  kept  calling 
his  attention  to  the  sugar  pines,  quoting  his 
wood-notes,  ''Come  listen  what  the  pine  tree 
saith,"  etc.,  pointing  out  the  noblest  as  kings 
and  high  priests,  the  most  eloquent  and  com 
manding  preachers  of  all  the  mountain  forests, 
stretching  forth  their  century-old  arms  in 
benediction  over  the  worshiping  congrega 
tions  crowded  about  them.  He  gazed  in  de 
vout  admiration,  saying  but  little,  while  his 
fine  smile  faded  away. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  reached 
Clark's  Station,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the 
party  dismount.  And  when  I  asked  if  we  were 
not  going  up  into  the  grove  to  camp  they  said : 
"No;  it  would  never  do  to  lie  out  in  the  night 
air.  Mr.  Emerson  might  take  cold;  and  you 
know,  Mr.  Muir,  that  would  be  a  dreadful 
thing."  In  vain  I  urgeo^  that  only  in  homes 
and  hotels  were  colds  caught,  that  nobody 
ever  was  known  to  take  cold  camping  in  these 
woods,  that  there  was  not  a  single  cough  or 
sneeze  in  all  the  Sierra.  Then  I  pictured  the 
big  climate-changing,  inspiring  fire  I  would 
make,  praised  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
sequoia  flame,  told  how  the  great  trees  would 
stand  about  us  transfigured  in  the  purple  light, 
while  the  stars  looked  down  between  the  great 

146 


FORESTS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

domes;  ending  by  urging  them  to  come  on  and 
make  an  immortal  Emerson  night  of  it.  But 
the  house  habit  was  not  to  be  overcome,  nor 
the  strange  dread  of  pure  night  air,  though  it 
is  only  cooled  day  air  with  a  little  dew  in  it. 
So  the  carpet  dust  and  unknowable  reeks  were 
preferred.  And  to  think  of  this  being  a  Bos 
ton  choice!  Sad  commentary  on  culture  and 
the  glorious  transcendentalism. 

Accustomed  to  reach  whatever  place  I 
started  for,  I  was  going  up  the  mountain  alone 
to  camp,  and  wait  the  coming  of  the  party 
next  day.  But  since  Emerson  was  so  soon  to 
vanish,  I  concluded  to  stop  with  him.  He 
hardly  spoke  a  word  all  the  evening,  yet  it 
was  a  great  pleasure  simply  to  be  near  him, 
warming  in  the  light  of  his  face  as  at  a  fire.  In 
the  morning  we  rode  up  the  trail  through  a 
noble  forest  of  pine  and  fir  into  the  famous 
Mariposa  Grove,  and  stayed  an  hour  or  two, 
mostly  in  ordinary  tourist  fashion,  —  looking 
at  the  biggest  giants,  measuring  them  with  a 
tape  line,  riding  through  prostrate  fire-bored 
trunks,  etc.,  though  Mr.  Emerson  was  alone 
occasionally,  sauntering  about  as  if  under  a 
spell.  As  we  walked  through  a  fine  group,  he 
quoted,  "There  were  giants  in  those  days," 
recognizing  the  antiquity  of  the  race.  To  com 
memorate  his  visit,  Mr.  Galen  Clark,  the 

147 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

guardian  of  the  grove,  selected  the  finest  of 
the  unnamed  trees  and  requested  him  to  give 
it  a  name.  He  named  it  Samoset,  after  the 
New  England  sachem,  as  the  best  that  oc 
curred  to  him. 

The  poor  bit  of  measured  tune  was  soon 
spent,  and  while  the  saddles  were  being  ad 
justed  I  again  urged  Emerson  to  stay.  "You 
are  yourself  a  sequoia,"  I  said.  "Stop  and  get 
acquainted  with  your  big  brethren."  But  he 
was  past  his  prime,  and  was  now  as  a  child  in 
the  hands  of  his  affectionate  but  sadly  civilized 
friends,  who  seemed  as  full  of  old-fashioned 
conformity  as  of  bold  intellectual  independ 
ence.  It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  and  the 
afternoon  of  his  life,  and  his  course  was  now 
westward  down  all  the  mountains  into  the 
sunset.  The  party  mounted  and  rode  away  in 
wondrous  contentment,  apparently,  tracing 
the  trail  through  ceanothus  and  dogwood 
bushes,  around  the  bases  of  the  big  trees,  up 
the  slope  of  the  sequoia  basin,  and  over  the 
divide.  I  followed  to  the  edge  of  the  grove. 
Emerson  lingered  in  the  rear  of  the  train,  and 
when  he  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge,  after  all 
the  rest  of  the  party  were  over  and  out  of  sight, 
he  turned  his  horse,  took  off  his  hat  and  waved 
me  a  last  good-bye.  I  felt  lonely,  so  sure  had 
I  been  that  Emerson  of  all  men  would  be  the 

148 


quickest  to  see  the  mountains  and  sing  them. 
Gazing  awhile  on  the  spot  where  he  vanished, 
I  sauntered  back  into  the  heart  of  the  grove, 
made  a  bed  of  sequoia  plumes  and  ferns  by  the 
side  of  a  stream,  gathered  a  store  of  firewood, 
and  then  walked  about  until  sundown.  The 
birds,  robins,  thrushes,  warblers,  etc.,  that  had 
kept  out  of  sight,  came  about  me,  now  that  all 
wras  quiet,  and  made  cheer.  After  sundowrn  I 
built  a  great  fire,  and  as  usual  had  it  all  to 
myself.  And  though  lonesome  for  the  first  time 
in  these  forests,  I  quickly  took  heart  again,  - 
the  trees  had  not  gone  to  Boston,  nor  the  birds ; 
and  as  I  sat  by  the  fire,  Emerson  was  still  with 
me  in  spirit,  though  I  never  again  saw  him  in 
the  flesh.  He  sent  books  and  wrote,  cheering 
me  on;  advised  me  not  to  stay  too  long  in 
solitude.  Soon  he  hoped  that  my  guardian 
angel  would  intimate  that  my  probation  was 
at  a  close.  Then  I  was  to  roll  up  my  herba 
riums,  sketches,  and  poems  (though  I  never 
knew  I  had  any  poems),  and  come  to  his  house; 
and  when  I  tired  of  him  and  his  humble  sur 
roundings,  he  would  show  me  to  better  people. 
But  there  remained  many  a  forest  to  wan 
der  through,  many  a  mountain  and  glacier  to 
cross,  before  I  was  to  see  his  Wachusett  and 
Monadnock,  Boston  and  Concord.  It  was 
seventeen  years  after  we  had  parted  on  the 

149 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Wawona  ridge  that  I  stood  beside  his  grave 
under  a  pine  tree  on  the  hill  above  Sleepy 
Hollow.  He  had  gone  to  higher  Sierras,  and, 
as  I  fancied,  was  again  waving  his  hand  in 
friendly  recognition. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE  PARK 

WHEN  California  was  wild,  it  was  the  flower- 
iest  part  of  the  continent.  And  perhaps  it  is  so 
still,  notwithstanding  the  lowland  flora  has  in 
great  part  vanished  before  the  farmers'  flocks 
and  ploughs.  So  exuberant  was  the  bloom  of 
the  main  valley  of  the  state,  it  would  still  have 
been  extravagantly  rich  had  ninety-nine  out 
of  every  hundred  of  its  crowded  flowers  been 
taken  away,  —  far  flowerier  than  the  beautiful 
prairies  of  Illinois  and  Wisconsin,  or  the  savan 
nas  of  the  Southern  states.  In  the  early  spring 
it  was  a  smooth,  evenly  planted  sheet  of  purple 
and  gold,  one  mass  of  bloom  more  than  four 
hundred  miles  long,  with  scarce  a  green  leaf  in 
sight. 

Still  more  interesting  is  the  rich  and  wonder 
fully  varied  flora  of  the  mountains.  Going  up 
the  Sierra  across  the  Yosemite  Park  to  the 
Summit  peaks,  thirteen  thousand  feet  high,  you 
find  as  much  variety  in  the  vegetation  as  in 
the  scenery.  Change  succeeds  change  with  be 
wildering  rapidity,  for  in  a  few  days  you  pass 
through  as  many  climates  and  floras,  ranged 

151 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

one  above  another,  as  you  would  in  walking 
along  the  lowlands  to  the  Arctic  Ocean. 

And  to  the  variety  due  to  climate  there  is 
added  that  caused  by  the  topographical  fea 
tures  of  the  different  regions.  Again,  the  vege 
tation  is  profoundly  varied  by  the  peculiar  dis 
tribution  of  the  soil  and  moisture.  Broad  and 
deep  moraines,  ancient  and  well  weathered,  are 
spread  over  the  lower  regions,  rough  and  com 
paratively  recent  and  unweathered  moraines 
over  the  middle  and  upper  regions,  alternating 
with  bare  ridges  and  domes  and  glacier-pol 
ished  pavements,  the  highest  in  the  icy  recesses 
of  the  peaks,  raw  and  shifting,  some  of  them  be 
ing  still  in  process  of  formation,  and  of  course 
scarcely  planted  as  yet. 

Besides  these  main  soil-beds  there  are  many 
others  comparatively  small,  reformations  of 
both  glacial  and  weather-soils,  sifted,  sorted 
out,  an4  deposited  by  running  water  and  the 
wind  on  gentle  slopes  and  in  all  sorts  of  hollows, 
potholes,  valleys,  lake  basins,  etc.,  —  some  in 
dry  and  breezy  situations,  others  sheltered  and 
kept  moist  by  lakes,  streams,  and  waftings  of 
waterfall  spray,  making  comfortable  homes  for 
plants  widely  varied.  In  general,  glaciers  give 
soil  to  high  and  low  places  almost  alike,  while 
water  currents  are  dispensers  of  special  bless 
ings,  constantly  tending  to  make  the  ridges 

152 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE    YOSEMITE 

poorer  and  the  valleys  richer.  Glaciers  mingle 
all  kinds  of  material  together,  mud  particles 
and  boulders  fifty  feet  in  diameter:  water, 
whether  in  oozing  currents  or  passionate  tor 
rents,  discriminates  both  in  the  size  and  shape 
of  the  material  it  carries.  Glacier  mud  is  the 
finest  meal  ground  for  any  use  in  the  Park,  and 
its  transportation  into  lakes  and  as  founda 
tions  for  flowery  garden  meadows  was  the  first 
work  that  the  young  rivers  were  called  on  to 
do.  Bogs  occur  only  in  shallow  alpine  basins 
where  the  climate  is  cool  enough  for  sphagnum, 
and  where  the  surrounding  topographical  con 
ditions  are  such  that  they  are  safe,  even  in  the 
most  copious  rains  and  thaws,  from  the  action 
of  flood  currents  capable  of  carrying  rough 
gravel  and  sand,  but  where  the  water  supply  is 
nevertheless  constant.  The  mosses  dying  from 
year  to  year  gradually  give  rise  to  those  rich 
spongy  peat-beds  in  which  so  many  o£  our  best 
alpine  plants  delight  to  dwell.  The  strong 
winds  that  occasionally  sweep  the  high  Sierra 
play  a  more  important  part  in  the  distribution 
of  special  soil-beds  than  is  at  first  sight  recog 
nized,  carrying  forward  considerable  quantities 
of  sand  and  gravel,  flakes  of  mica,  etc.,  and 
depositing  them  in  fields  and  beds  beautifully 
ruffled  and  embroidered  and  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  some  of  the  hardiest  and  handsomest 

153 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  the  alpine  shrubs  and  flowers.  The  more 
resisting  of  the  smooth,  solid,  glacier-polished 
domes  and  ridges  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
any  soil  at  all,  while  others  beginning  to  give 
way  to  the  weather  are  thinly  sprinkled  with 
coarse  angular  gravel.  Some  of  them  are  full 
of  crystals,  which  as  the  surface  of  the  rock  is 
decomposed  are  set  free,  covering  the  summits 
and  rolling  down  the  sides  in  minute  avalanches, 
giving  rise  to  zones  and  beds  of  crystalline  soil. 
In  some  instances  the  various  crystals  occur 
only  here  and  there,  sprinkled  in  the  gray 
gravel  like  daisies  in  a  sod;  but  in  others  half  or 
more  is  made  up  of  crystals,  and  the  glow  of  the 
imbedded  or  loosely  strewn  gems  and  their  col 
ored  gleams  and  glintings  at  different  times  of 
the  day  when  the  sun  is  shining  might  well  ex 
hilarate  the  flowers  that  grow  among  them,  and 
console  them  for  being  so  completely  outshone. 

These  radiant  sheets  and  belts  and  dome- 

• 

encircling  rings  of  crystals  are  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  all  the  Sierra  soil-beds,  while  the  huge 
taluses  ranged  along  the  walls  of  the  great 
canons  are  the  deepest  and  roughest.  Instead 
of  being  slowly  weathered  and  accumulated 
from  the  cliffs  overhead  like  common  taluses, 
they  were  all  formed  suddenly  and  simultane 
ously  by  an  earthquake  that  occurred  at  least 
three  centuries  ago.  Though  thus  hurled  into 

154 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

existence  at  a  single  effort,  they  are  the  least 
changeable  and  destructible  of  all  the  soil  for 
mations  in  the  range.  Excepting  those  which 
were  launched  directly  into  the  channels  of 
rivers,  scarcely  one  of  their  wedged  and  inter 
locked  boulders  has  been  moved  since  the  day 
of  their  creation,  and  though  mostly  made  up 
of  huge  angular  blocks  of  granite,  many  of 
them  from  ten  to  fifty  feet  cube,  trees  and 
shrubs  make  out  to  live  and  thrive  on  them, 
and  even  delicate  herbaceous  plants,  —  dra- 
peria,  collomia,  zauschneria,  etc.,  —  soothing 
their  rugged  features  with  gardens  and  groves. 
In  general  views  of  the  Park  scarce  a  hint  is 
given  of  its  floral  wealth.  Only  by  patiently, 
lovingly  sauntering  about  in  it  will  you  dis 
cover  that  it  is  all  more  or  less  flowery,  the 
forests  as  well  as  the  open  spaces,  and  the 
mountain  tops  and  rugged  slopes  around  the 
glaciers  as  well  as  the  sunny  meadows. 

Even  the  majestic  canon  cliffs,  seemingly 
absolutely  flawless  for  thousands  of  feet  and 
necessarily  doomed  to  eternal  sterility,  are 
cheered  with  happy  flowers  on  invisible  niches 
and  ledges  wherever  the  slightest  grip  for  a  root 
can  be  found ;  as  if  Nature,  like  an  enthusiastic 
gardener,  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
plant  flowers  everywhere.  On  high,  dry  rocky 
summits  and  plateaus,  most  of  the  plants  are 

155 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

so  small  they  make  but  little  show  even  when 
in  bloom.  But  in  the  opener  parts  of  the  main 
forests,  the  meadows,  stream  banks,  and  the 
level  floors  of  Yosemite  valleys  the  vegetation 
is  exceedingly  rich  in  flowers,  some  of  the  lilies 
and  larkspurs  being  from  eight  to  ten  feet  high. 
And  on  the  upper  meadows  there  are  miles 
of  blue  gentians  and  daisies,  white  and  blue 
violets;  and  great  breadths  of  rosy  purple 
heathworts  covering  rocky  moraines  with  a 
marvelous  abundance  of  bloom,  enlivened  by 
hummingbirds,  butterflies  and  a  host  of  other 
insects  as  beautiful  as  flowers.  In  the  lower 
and  middle  regions,  also,  many  of  the  most 
extensive  beds  of  bloom  are  in  great  part  made 
by  shrubs,  —  adenostoma,  manzanita,  ceano- 
thus,  chamsebatia,  cherry,  rose,  rubus,  spiraea, 
shad,  laurel,  azalea,  honeysuckle,  calycanthus, 
ribes,  philadelphus,  and  many  others,  the 
sunny  spaces  about  them  bright  and  fragrant 
with  mints,  lupines,  geraniums,  lilies,  daisies, 
goldenrods,  castilleias,  gilias,  pentstemons,  etc. 
Adenostoma  fasciculatum  is  a  handsome, 
hardy,  heathlike  shrub  belonging  to  the  rose 
family,  flourishing  on  dry  ground  below  the 
pine  belt,  and  often  covering  areas  of  twenty  or 
thirty  square  miles  of  rolling  sun-beaten  hills 
and  dales  with  a  dense,  dark  green,  almost  im 
penetrable  chaparral,  which  in  the  distance 

156 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

looks  like  Scotch  heather.  It  is  about  six  to 
eight  feet  high,  has  slender  elastic  branches, 
red  shreddy  bark,  needle-shaped  leaves,  and 
small  white  flowers  in  panicles  about  a  foot 
long,  making  glorious  sheets  of  fragrant  bloom 
in  the  spring.  To  running  fires  it  offers  no  re 
sistance,  vanishing  with  the  few  other  flowery 
shrubs  and  vines  and  liliaceous  plants  that 
grow  with  it  about  as  fast  as  dry  grass,  leaving 
nothing  but  ashes.  But  with  wonderful  vigor 
it  rises  again  and  again  in  fresh  beauty  from 
the  root,  and  calls  back  to  its  hospitable  man 
sions  the  multitude  of  wild  animals  that  had 
to  flee  for  their  lives. 

As  soon  as  you  enter  the  pine  woods  you 
meet  the  charming  little  Chamcebatia  foliolosa, 
one  of  the  handsomest  of  the  Park  shrubs,  next 
in  fineness  and  beauty  to  the  heathworts  of  the 
alpine  regions.  Like  adenostoma  it  belongs  to 
the  rose  family,  is  from  twelve  to  eighteen 
inches  high,  has  brown  bark,  slender  branches, 
white  flowers  like  those  of  the  strawberry,  and 
thrice-pinnate  glandular,  yellow-green  leaves, 
finely  cut  and  fernlike,  as  if  unusual  pains  had 
been  taken  in  fashioning  them.  Where  there  is 
plenty  of  sunshine  at  an  elevation  of  three  thou 
sand  to  six  thousand  feet,  it  makes  a  close, 
continuous  growth,  leaf  touching  leaf  over 
hundreds  of  acres,  spreading  a  handsome  man- 

157 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

tie  beneath  the  yellow  and  sugar  pines.  Here 
and  there  a  lily  rises  above  it,  an  arching  bunch 
of  tall  bromus,  and  at  wide  intervals  a  rose 
bush  or  clump  of  ceanothus  or  manzanita,  but 
there  are  no  rough  weeds  mixed  with  it,  —  no 
roughness  of  any  sort. 

Perhaps  the  most  widely  distributed  of  all 
the  Park  shrubs  and  of  the  Sierra  in  general, 
certainly  the  most  strikingly  characteristic, 
are  the  many  species  of  manzanita  (Arcto- 
staphylos).  Though  one  species,  the  Uva-ursi, 
or  bearberry,  —  the  kinikinic  of  the  Western 
Indians,  —  extends  around  the  world,  the 
greater  part  of  them  are  Calif ornian.  They  are 
mostly  from  four  to  ten  feet  high,  round- 
headed,  with  innumerable  branches,  brown  or 
red  bark,  pale  green  leaves  set  on  edge,  and  a 
rich  profusion  of  small,  pink,  narrow-throated, 
urn-shaped  flowers  like  those  of  arbutus.  The 
branches  are  knotty,  zigzaggy,  and  about  as 
rigid  as  bones,  and  the  bark  is  so  thin  and 
smooth,  both  trunk  and  branches  seem  to  be 
naked,  looking  as  if  they  had  been  peeled, 
polished,  and  painted  red.  The  wood  also  is 
red,  hard,  and  heavy. 

These  grand  bushes  seldom  fail  to  engage  the 
attention  of  the  traveler  and  hold  it,  especially 
if  he  has  to  pass  through  closely  planted  fields 
of  them  such  as  grow  on  moraine  slopes  at  an 

158 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

elevation  of  about  seven  thousand  feet,  and  in 
canons  choked  with  earthquake  boulders;  for 
they  make  the  most  uncompromisingly  stub 
born  of  all  chaparral.  Even  bears  take  pains 
to  go  around  the  stoutest  patches  if  possible, 
and  when  compelled  to  force  a  passage  leave 
tufts  of  hair  and  broken  branches  to  mark  their 
way,  while  less  skillful  mountaineers  under  like 
circumstances  sometimes  lose  most  of  their 
clothing  and  all  their  temper. 

The  manzanitas  like  sunny  ground.  On 
warm  ridges  and  sandy  flats  at  the  foot  of  sun- 
beaten  canon  cliffs,  some  of  the  tallest  speci 
mens  have  well-defined  trunks  six  inches  to  a 
foot  or  more  thick,  and  stand  apart  in  orchard- 
like  growths  which  in  bloomtime  are  among  the 
finest  garden  sights  in  the  Park.  The  largest  I 
ever  saw  had  a  round,  slightly  fluted  trunk 
nearly  four  feet  in  diameter,  which  at  a  height 
of  only  eighteen  inches  from  the  ground  dis 
solved  into  a  wilderness  of  branches,  rising  and 
spreading  to  a  height  and  width  of  about  twelve 
feet.  In  spring  every  bush  over  all  the  moun 
tains  is  covered  with  rosy  flowers,  in  autumn 
with  fruit.  The  red  pleasantly  acid  berries, 
about  the  size  of  peas,  are  like  little  apples, 
and  the  hungry  mountaineer  is  glad  to  eat 
them,  though  half  their  bulk  is  made  up  of 
hard  seeds.  Indians,  bears,  coyotes,  foxes, 

159 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

birds,  and  other  mountain  people  live  on  them 
for  months. 

Associated  with  manzanita  there  are  six  or 
seven  species  of  ceanothus,  flowery,  fragrant, 
and  altogether  delightful  shrubs,  growing  in 
glorious  abundance  in  the  forests  on  sunny 
or  half-shaded  ground,  up  to  an  elevation  of 
about  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  In  the 
sugar-pine  woods  the  most  beautiful  species  is 
C.  integerrimus,  often  called  California  lilac, 
or  deer  brush.  It  is  five  or  six  feet  high,  smooth, 
slender,  willowy,  with  bright  foliage  and  abun 
dance  of  blue  flowers  in  close,  showy  panicles. 
Two  species,  prostratus  and  procumbens,  spread 
handsome  blue-flowered  mats  and  rugs  on 
warm  ridges  beneath  the  pines,  and  offer  de 
lightful  beds  to  the  tired  mountaineers.  The 
commonest  species,  C.  cordulatus,  is  mostly 
restricted  to  the  silver  fir  belt.  It  is  white- 
flowered  and  thorny,  and  makes  extensive 
thickets  of  tangled  chaparral,  far  too  dense  to 
wade  through,  and  too  deep  and  loose  to  walk 
on,  though  it  is  pressed  flat  every  winter  by 
ten  or  fifteen  feet  of  snow. 

Above  these  thorny  beds,  sometimes  mixed 
with  them,  a  very  wild,  red-fruited  cherry 
grows  in  magnificent  tangles,  fragrant  and 
white  as  snow  when  in  bloom.  The  fruit  is 
small  and  rather  bitter,  not  so  good  as  the 

160 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

black,  puckery  chokecherry  that  grows  in  the 
canons,  but  thrushes,  robins,  chipmunks  like 
it.  Below  the  cherry  tangles,  chinquapin  and 
goldcup  oak  spread  generous  mantles  of  cha 
parral,  and  with  hazel  and  ribes  thickets  in 
adjacent  glens  help  to  clothe  and  adorn  the 
rocky  wilderness,  and  produce  food  for  the 
many  mouths  Nature  has  to  fill.  Azalea  occi- 
dentalis  is  the  glory  of  cool  streams  and  mead 
ows.  It  is  from  two  to  five  feet  high,  has  bright 
green  leaves  and  a  rich  profusion  of  large,  fra 
grant  white  and  yellow  flowers,  which  are  in 
prime  beauty  in  June,  July,  and  August,  ac 
cording  to  the  elevation  (from  three  thousand 
to  six  thousand  feet).  Only  the  purple-flow 
ered  rhododendron  of  the  redwood  forests  rivals 
or  surpasses  it  in  superb  abounding  bloom. 

Back  a  little  way  from  the  azalea-bordered 
streams,  a  small  wild  rose  makes  thickets, 
often  several  acres  in  extent,  deliciously  fra 
grant  on  dewy  mornings  and  after  showers, 
the  fragrance  mingled  with  the  music  of  birds 
nesting  in  them.  And  not  far  from  these  rose 
gardens  Rubus  Nutkanus  covers  the  ground 
with  broad  velvety  leaves  and  pure  white 
flowers  as  large  as  those  of  its  neighbor  the 
•rose,  and  finer  in  texture;  followed  at  the  end 
of  summer  by  soft  red  berries  good  for  bird 
and  beast  and  man  also.  This  is  the  common- 

161 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

est  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the  whole  blessed 
flowery  fruity  genus. 

The  glory  of  the  alpine  region  in  bloomtime 
are  the  heathworts,  cassiope,  bryanthus,  kal- 
mia,  and  vaccinium,  enriched  here  and  there 
by  the  alpine  honeysuckle,  Lonicera  conjugialis, 
and  by  the  purple-flowered  Primula  suffru- 
ticosa,  the  only  primrose  discovered  in  Cali 
fornia,  and  the  only  shrubby  species  in  the 
genus.  The  lowly,  hardy,  adventurous  cassi 
ope  has  exceedingly  slender  creeping  branches, 
scalelike  leaves,  and  pale  pink  or  white  waxen 
bell  flowers.  Few  plants,  large  or  small,  so 
well  endure  hard  weather  and  rough  ground 
over  so  great  a  range.  In  July  it  spreads  a 
wavering,  interrupted  belt  of  the  loveliest 
bloom  around  glacier  lakes  and  meadows  and 
across  wild  moory  expanses,  between  roaring 
streams,  all  along  the  Sierra,  and  northward 
beneath  cold  skies  by  way  of  the  mountain 
chains  of  Oregon,  Washington,  British  Colum 
bia,  and  Alaska,  to  the  Arctic  regions;  gradu 
ally  descending,  until  at  the  north  end  of  the 
continent  it  reaches  the  level  of  the  sea;  bloom 
ing  as  profusely  and  at  about  the  same  time  on 
mossy  frozen  tundras  as  on  the  high  Sierra 
moraines. 

Bryanthus,  the  companion  of  cassiope,  ac 
companies  it  as  far  north  as  southeastern, 

162 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

Alaska,  where  together  they  weave  thick 
plushy  beds  on  rounded  mountain  tops  above 
the  glaciers.  It  grows  mostly  at  slightly  lower 
elevations;  the  upper  margin  of  what  may  be 
called  the  bryanthus  belt  in  the  Sierra  unit 
ing  with  and  overlapping  the  lower  margin  of 
the  cassiope.  The  wide  bell-shaped  flowers  are 
bright  purple,  about  three  fourths  of  an  incn 
in  diameter,  hundreds  to  the  square  yard,  the 
young  branches,  mostly  erect,  being  covered 
with  them.  No  Highlander  in  heather  enjoys 
more  luxurious  rest  than  the  Sierra  mountain 
eer  in  a  bed  of  blooming  bryanthus.  And 
imagine  the  show  on  calm  dewy  mornings, 
when  there  is  a  radiant  globe  in  the  throat  of 
every  flower,  and  smaller  gems  on  the  needle- 
shaped  leaves,  the  sunbeams  pouring  through 
them. 

In  the  same  wild,  cold  region  the  tiny  Vac- 
dnium  myrtillus,  mixed  with  kalmia  and  dwarf 
willows,  spreads  thinner  carpets,  the  down- 
pressed  matted  leaves  profusely  sprinkled  with 
pink  bells ;  and  on  higher  sandy  slopes  you  will 
find  several  alpine  species  of  eriogonum  with 
gorgeous  bossy  masses  of  yellow  bloom,  and 
the  lovely  Arctic  daisy  with  many  blessed  com 
panions;  charming  plants,  gentle  mountain 
eers,  Nature's  darlings,  which  seem  always  the 
finer  the  higher  and  stormier  their  homes. 

163 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Many  interesting  ferns  are  distributed  over 
the  Park  from  the  foothills  to  a  little  above 
the  timber  line.  The  greater  number  are  rock 
ferns,  pellsea,  cheilanthes,  polypodium,  adian- 
tum,  woodsia,  cryptogramme,  etc.,  with  small 
tufted  fronds,  lining  glens  and  gorges  and 
fringing  the  cliffs  and  moraines.  The  most 
important  of  the  larger  species  are  woodwar- 
dia,  aspidium,  asplenium,  and  the  common 
pteris.  Woodwardia  radicans  is  a  superb  fern 
five  to  eight  feet  high,  growing  in  vaselike 
clumps  where  the  ground  is  level,  and  on  slopes 
in  a  regular  thatch,  frond  over  frond,  like 
shingles  on  a  roof.  Its  range  in  the  Park  is 
from  the  western  boundary  up  to  about  five 
thousand  feet,  mostly  on  benches  of  the  north 
walls  of  canons  watered  by  small  outspread 
streams.  It  is  far  more  abundant  in  the  Coast 
Mountains  beneath  the  noble  redwoods,  where 
it  attains  a  height  of  ten  to  twelve  feet.  The 
aspidiums  are  mostly  restricted  to  the  moist 
parts  of  the  lower  forests,  Asplenium  filix-fce- 
mina  to  marshy  streams.  The  hardy,  broad- 
shouldered  Pteris  aquilina,  the  commonest  of 
ferns,  grows  tall  and  graceful  on  sunny  flats 
and  hillsides,  at  elevations  between  three  thou 
sand  and  six  thousand  feet.  Those  who  know 
it  only  in  the  Eastern  states  can  form  no  fair 
conception  of  its  stately  beauty  in  the  sun- 

164 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

shine  of  the  Sierra.  On  the  level  sandy  floors 
of  Yosemite  valleys  it  often  attains  a  height  of 
six  to  eight  feet  in  fields  thirty  or  forty  acres  in 
extent,  the  magnificent  fronds  outspread  in  a 
nearly  horizontal  position,  forming  a  ceiling 
beneath  which  one  may  walk  erect  in  delight 
ful  mellow  shade.  No  other  fern  does  so  much 
for  the  color  glory  of  autumn,  with  its  browns 
and  reds  and  yellows  changing  and  inter- 
blending.  Even  after  lying  dead  all  winter 
beneath  the  snow  it  spreads  a  lively  brown 
mantle  over  the  desolate  ground,  until  the 
young  fronds  with  a  noble  display  of  faith  and 
hope  come  rolling  up  into  the  light  through 
the  midst  of  the  beautiful  ruins.  A  few  weeks 
suffice  for  their  development,  then,  gracefully 
poised  each  in  its  place,  they  manage  them 
selves  in  every  exigency  of  weather  as  if  they 
had  passed  through  a  long  course  of  train 
ing.  I  have  seen  solemn  old  sugar  pines  thrown 
into  momentary  confusion  by  the  sudden  onset 
of  a  storm,  tossing  their  arms  excitedly  as  if 
scarce  awake,  and  wondering  what  had  hap 
pened,  but  I  never  noticed  surprise  or  embar 
rassment  in  the  behavior  of  this  noble  pteris. 

Of  five  species  of  pellaea  in  the  Park,  the 
handsome  andromedcefolia,  growing  in  brushy 
foothills  with  Adiantum  emarginatnm,  is  the 
largest.  P.  Breweri,  the  hardiest  and  at  the 

165 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

same  time  the  most  fragile  of  the  genus,  grows 
in  dense  tufts  among  rocks  on  storm-beaten 
mountain  sides  along  the  upper  margin  of  the 
fern  line.  It  is  a  charming  little  fern,  four  or 
five  inches  high,  has  shining  bronze-colored 
stalks  which  are  about  as  brittle  as  glass,  and 
pale  green  pinnate  fronds.  Its  companions  on 
the  lower  part  of  its  range  are  Cryptogramme 
acrostichoides  and  Phegopteris  alpestris,  the 
latter  soft  and  tender,  not  at  all  like  a  rock 
fern,  though  it  grows  on  rocks  where  the  snow 
lies  longest.  P.  Bridgesii,  with  blue-green, 
narrow,  simply  pinnate  fronds,  is  about  the 
same  size  as  Breweri  and  ranks  next  to  it  as  a 
mountaineer,  growing  in  fissures  and  around 
boulders  on  glacier  pavements.  About  a  thou 
sand  feet  lower  we  find  the  smaller  and  more 
abundant  P.  densa,  on  ledges  and  boulder- 
strewn  fissured  pavements,  watered  until  late 
in  summer  by  oozing  currents  from  snow-banks 
or  thin  outspread  streams  from  moraines, 
growing  in  close  sods,  —  its  little  bright  green 
triangular  tripinnate  fronds,  about  an  inch 
in  length,  as  innumerable  as  leaves  of  grass. 
P.  ornithopus  has  twice  or  thrice  pinnate  fronds, 
is  dull  in  color,  and  dwells  on  hot  rocky  hill 
sides  among  chaparral. 

Three  species  of  cheilanthes,  —  Californica, 
gracillima,  and  myriophylla,  with  beautiful  two 

166 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

to  four  pinnate  fronds,  an  inch  to  five  inches 
long,  adorn  the  stupendous  walls  of  the  canons, 
however  dry  and  sheer.  The  exceedingly  deli 
cate  and  interesting  Californica  is  rare,  the 
others  abundant  at  from  three  thousand  to 
seven  thousand  feet  elevation,  and  are  often 
accompanied  by  the  little  gold  fern,  Gymno- 
gramme  triangularis,  and  rarely  by  the  curi 
ous  little  Botrychium  simplex,  the  smallest  of 
which  are  less  than  an  inch  high. 

The  finest  of  all  the  rock  ferns  is  Adiantum 
pedatum,  lover  of  waterfalls  and  the  lightest 
waftings  of  irised  spray.  No  other  Sierra  fern 
is  so  constant  a  companion  of  white  spray- 
covered  streams,  or  tells  so  well  their  wild 
thundering  music.  The  homes  it  loves  best  are 
cave-like  hollows  beside  the  main  falls,  where  it 
can  float  its  plumes  on  their  dewy  breath,  safely 
sheltered  from  the  heavy  spray-laden  blasts. 
Many  of  these  moss-lined  chambers,  so  cool, 
so  moist,  and  brightly  colored  with  rainbow 
light,  contain  thousands  of  these  happy  ferns, 
clinging  to  the  emerald  walls  by  the  slightest 
holds,  reaching  out  the  most  wonderfully  deli 
cate  fingered  fronds  on  dark  glossy  stalks, 
sensitive,  tremulous,  all  alive,  in  an  attitude 
of  eager  attention;  throbbing  in  unison  with 
every  motion  and  tone  of  the  resounding  waters, 
compliant  to  their  faintest  impulses,  moving 

167 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

each  division  of  the  frond  separately  at  times 
as  if  fingering  the  music,  playing  on  invisible 
keys. 

Considering  the  lilies  as  you  go  up  the  moun 
tains,  the  first  you  come  to  is  L.  Pardalinum, 
with  large  orange-yellow,  purple-spotted  flow 
ers  big  enough  for  babies'  bonnets.  It  is  seldom 
found  higher  than  thirty-five  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  grows  in  magnificent  groups  of 
fifty  to  a  hundred  or  more,  in  romantic  water 
fall  dells  in  the  pine  woods  shaded  by  over 
arching  maple  and  willow,  alder  and  dogwood, 
with  bushes  in  front  of  the  embowering  trees 
for  a  border,  and  ferns  and  sedges  in  front  of 
the  bushes;  while  the  bed  of  black  humus  in 
which  the  bulbs  are  set  is  carpeted  with  mosses 
and  liverworts.  These  richly  furnished  lily 
gardens  are  the  pride  of  the  falls  on  the  lower 
tributaries  of  the  Tuolumne  and  Merced 
rivers,  falls  not  like  those  of  Yosemite  valleys, 
-  coming  from  the  sky  with  rock-shaking 
thunder  tones,  —  but  small,  with  low,  kind 
voices  cheerily  singing  hi  calm  leafy  bowers, 
self-contained,  keeping  their  snowy  skirts  well 
about  them,  yet  furnishing  plenty  of  spray 
for  the  lilies. 

The  Washington  lily  (L.  Washingtonianum) 
is  white,  deliciously  fragrant,  moderate  in  size, 
with  three  to  ten  flowered  racemes.  The  larg- 

168 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

est  I  ever  measured  was  eight  feet  high,  the 
raceme  two  feet  long,  with  fifty-two  flowers, 
fifteen  of  them  open;  the  others  had  faded  or 
were  still  in  the  bud.  This  famous  lily  is  dis 
tributed  over  the  sunny  portions  of  the  sugar- 
pine  woods,  never  in  large  garden  companies 
like  pardalinum,  but  widely  scattered,  stand 
ing  up  to  the  waist  in  dense  ceanothus  and 
manzanita  chaparral,  waving  its  lovely  flowers 
above  the  blooming  wilderness  of  brush,  and 
giving  their  fragrance  to  the  breeze.  These 
stony,  thorny  jungles  are  about  the  last  places 
in  the  mountains  in  which  one  would  look  for 
lilies.  But  though  they  toil  not  nor  spin,  like 
other  people  under  adverse  circumstances,  they 
have  to  do  the  best  they  can.  Because  their 
large  bulbs  are  good  to  eat  they  are  dug  up  by 
Indians  and  bears;  therefore,  like  hunted  ani 
mals,  they  seek  refuge  in  the  chaparral,  where 
among  the  boulders  and  tough  tangled  roots 
they  are  comparatively  safe.  This  is  the  favor 
ite  Sierra  lily,  and  it  is  now  growing  in  all  the 
best  parks  and  gardens  of  the  world. 

The  showiest  gardens  in  the  Park  lie  im 
bedded  in  the  silver  fir  forests  on  the  top  of 
the  main  dividing  ridges  or  hang  like  gayly 
colored  scarfs  down  their  sides.  Their  wet 
places  are  in  great  part  taken  up  by  veratrum, 
a  robust  broad-leaved  plant  determined  to  be 

169 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

seen,  and  habenaria  and  spiranthes;  .the  drier 
parts  by  tall  columbines,  larkspurs,  castilleias, 
lupines,  hosackias,  erigerons,  valerian,  etc., 
standing  deep  in  grass,  with  violets  here  and 
there  around  the  borders.  But  the  finest  fea 
ture  of  these  forest  gardens  is  Lilium  parvum. 
It  varies  greatly  in  size,  the  tallest  being  from 
six  to  nine  feet  high,  with  splendid  racemes  of 
ten  to  fifty  small  orange-colored  flowers,  which 
rock  and  wave  with  great  dignity  above  the 
other  flowers  in  the  infrequent  winds  that 
fall  over  the  protecting  wall  of  trees.  Though 
rather  frail-looking  it  is  strong,  reaching  prime 
vigor  and  beauty  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  and  in  some  places  venturing  as  high 
as  eleven  thousand. 

Calochortus,  or  Mariposa  tulip,  is  a  unique 
genus  of  many  species  confined  to  the  California 
side  of  the  continent;  charming  plants,  some 
what  resembling  the  tulips  of  Europe,  but  far 
finer.  The  richest  calochortus  region  lies  below 
the  western  boundary  of  the  Park;  still  five  or 
six  species  are  included.  C.  Nuttallii  is  com 
mon  on  moraines  in  the  forests  of  the  two- 
leaved  pine;  and  C.  cceruleus  and  nudus,  very 
slender,  lowly  species,  may  be  found  in  moist 
garden  spots  near  Yosemite.  C.  albus,  with 
pure  white  flowers,  growing  in  shady  places 
among  the  foothill  shrubs,  is,  I  think,  the  very 

170 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

loveliest  of  all  the  lily  family,  —  a  spotless 
soul,  plant  saint,  that  every  one  must  love  and 
so  be  made  better.  It  puts  the  wildest  moun 
taineer  on  his  good  behavior.  With  this  plant 
the  whole  world  would  seem  rich  though  none 
other  existed.  Next  after  Calochortus,  Brodi- 
cea  is  the  most  interesting  genus.  Nearly  all 
the  many  species  have  beautiful  showy  heads 
of  blue,  lilac,  and  yellow  flowers,  enriching 
the  gardens  of  the  lower  pine  region.  Other 
liliaceous  plants  likely  to  attract  attention  are 
the  blue-flowered  camassia,  the  bulbs  of  which 
are  prized  as  food  by  Indians;  fritillaria,  smila- 
cina,  chloragalum,  and  the  twining  climbing 
stropholirion. 

The  common  orchidaceous  plants  are  coral- 
lorhiza,  goodyera,  spiranthes,  and  habenaria. 
Cypripedium  montanum,  the  only  moccasin 
flower  I  have  seen  in  the  Park,  is  a  handsome, 
thoughtful-looking  plant  living  beside  cool 
brooks.  The  large  oval  lip  is  white,  delicately 
veined  with  purple ;  the  other  petals  and  sepals 
purple,  strap-shaped,  and  elegantly  curved  and 
twisted. 

To  tourists  the  most  attractive  of  all  the 
flowers  of  the  forest  is  the  snow  plant  (Sarcodes 
sanguinea) .  It  is  a  bright  red,  fleshy,  succulent 
pillar  that  pushes  up  through  the  dead  needles 
in  the  pine  and  fir  woods  like  a  gigantic  aspar- 

171 


OUR  NAf  IONAL  PARKS 

agus  shoot.  The  first  intimation  of  its  coming 
is  a  loosening  and  upbulging  of  the  brown 
stratum  of  decomposed  needles  on  the  forest 
floor,  in  the  cracks  of  which  you  notice  fiery 
gleams;  presently  a  blunt  dome-shaped  head 
an  inch  or  two  in  diameter  appears,  covered 
with  closely  imbricated  scales  and  bracts.  In 
a  week  or  so  it  grows  to  a  height  of  six  to 
twelve  inches.  Then  the  long  fringed  bracts 
spread  and  curl  aside,  allowing  the  twenty  or 
thirty  five-lobed  bell-shaped  flowers  to  open 
and  look  straight  out  from  the  fleshy  axis.  It 
is  said  to  grow  up  through  the  snow;  on  the 
contrary  it  always  waits  until  the  ground  is 
warm,  though  with  other  early  flowers  it  is 
occasionally  buried  or  half  buried  for  a  day 
or  two  by  spring  storms.  The  entire  plant  — 
flowers,  bracts,  stem,  scales,  and  roots  —  is 
red.  But  notwithstanding  its  glowing  color 
and  beautiful  flowers,  it  is  singularly  unsym 
pathetic  and  cold.  Everybody  admires  it  as 
a  wonderful  curiosity,  but  nobody  loves  it. 
Without  fragrance,  rooted  in  decaying  vege 
table  matter,  it  stands  beneath  the  pines  and 
firs  lonely,  silent,  and  about  as  rigid  as  a  grave 
yard  monument. 

Down  in  the  main  canons  adjoining  the 
azalea  and  rose  gardens  there  are  fine   beds 
of  herbaceous  plants,  —  tall  mints  and  sun- 
172 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

flowers,  iris,  cenothera,  brodiaea,  and  bright 
beds  of  erythrasa  on  the  ferny  meadows.  Bolan- 
dera,  sedum,.and  airy,  feathery,  purple-flow 
ered  heuchera  adorn  mossy  nooks  near  falls, 
the  shading  trees  wreathed  and  festooned  with 
wild  grapevines  and  clematis;  while  lightly 
shaded  flats  are  covered  with  gilia  and  eunanus 
of  many  species,  hosackia,  arnica,  chsenactis, 
gayophytum,  gnaphalium,  monardella,  etc. 

Thousands  of  the  most  interesting  gardens 
in  the  Park  afe  never  seen,  for  they  are  small 
and  lie  far  up  on  ledges  and  terraces  of  the 
sheer  canon  walls,  wherever  a  strip  of  soil, 
however  narrow  and  shallow,  can  rest.  The 
birds,  winds,  and  down-washing  rains  have 
planted  them  with  all  sorts  of  hardy  moun 
tain  flowers,  and  where  there  is  sufficient 
moisture  they  flourish  in  profusion.  Many  of 
them  are  watered  by  little  streams  that  seem 
lost  on  the  tremendous  precipices,  clinging  to 
the  face  of  the  rock  in  lacelike  strips,  and 
dripping  from  ledge  to  ledge,  too  silent  to  be 
called  falls,  pathless  wanderers  from  the  upper 
meadows,  which  for  centuries  have  been  seek 
ing  a  way  down  to  the  rivers  they  belong  to, 
without  having  worn  as  yet  any  appreciable 
channel,  mostly  evaporated  or  given  to  the 
plants  they  meet  before  reaching  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs.  To  these  unnoticed  streams  the  finest 

173 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  the  cliff  gardens  owe  their  luxuriance  and 
freshness  of  beauty.  In  the  larger  ones  ferns 
and  showy  flowers  flourish  in  wonderful  pro 
fusion,  —  woodwardia,  columbine,  collomia, 
castilleia,  draperia,  geranium,  erythrsea,  pink 
and  scarlet  mimulus,  hosackia,  saxifrage,  sun 
flowers  and  daisies,  with  azalea,  spiraea,  and 
calycanthus,  a  few  specimens  of  each  that 
seem  to  have  been  culled  from  the  large  gar 
dens  above  and  beneath  them.  Even  lilies  are 
occasionally  found  in  these  irrigated  cliff  gar 
dens,  swinging  their  bells  over  the  giddy  preci 
pices,  seemingly  as  happy  as  their  relatives 
down  in  the  waterfall  dells.  Most  of  the  cliff 
gardens,  however,  are  dependent  on  summer 
showers,  and  though  from  the  shallowness  of 
the  soil-beds  they  are  often  dry,  they  still  dis 
play  a  surprising  number  of  bright  flowers,  — 
scarlet  zauschneria,  purple  bush  pentstemon, 
mints,  gilias,  and  bosses  of  glowing  golden 
bahia.  Nor  is  there  any  lack  of  commoner 
plants;  the  homely  yarrow  is"  often  found  in 
them,  and  sweet  clover  and  honeysuckle  for 
the  bees. 

In  the  upper  canons,  where  the  walls  are  in 
clined  at  so  low  an  angle  that  they  are  loaded 
with  moraine  material,  through  which  peren 
nial  streams  percolate  in  broad  diffused  cur 
rents,  there  are  long  wavering  garden  beds, 

174 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE    YOSEMITE 

that  seem  to  be  descending  through  the  forest 
like  cascades,  their  fluent  lines  suggesting 
motion,  swaying  from  side  to  side  of  the 
forested  banks,  surging  up  here  and  there 
over  island-like  boulder  piles,  or  dividing  and 
flowing  around  them.  In  some  of  these  floral 
cascades  the  vegetation  is  chiefly  sedges  and 
grasses  ruffled  with  willows;  in  others,  showy 
flowers  like  those  of  the  lily  gardens  on  the 
main  divides.  Another  curious  and  picturesque 
series  of  wall  gardens  are  made  by  thin  streams 
that  ooze  slowly  from  moraines  and  slip  gently 
over  smooth  glaciated  slopes.  From  particles 
of  sand  and  mud  they  carry,  a  pair  of  lobe- 
shaped  sheets  of  soil  an  inch  or  two  thick  are 
gradually  formed,  one  of  them  hanging  down 
from  the  brow  of  the  slope,  the  other  leaning 
up  from  the  foot  of  it,  like  stalactite  and  stalag 
mite,  the  soil  being  held  together  by  the  flow 
ery,  moisture-loving  plants  growing  in  it. 

Along  the  rocky  parts  of  the  canon  bottoms 
between  lake  basins,  where  the  streams  flow 
fast  over  glacier-polished  granite,  there  are 
rows  of  pothole  gardens  full  of  ferns,  daisies, 
goldenrods,  and  other  common  plants  of  the 
neighborhood  nicely  arranged  like  bouquets, 
and  standing  out  in  telling  relief  on  the  bare 
shining  rock  banks.  And  all  the  way  up  the 
canons  to  the  Summit  mountains,  wherever 

175 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

there  is  soil  of  any  sort,  there  is  no  lack  of 
flowers,  however  short  the  summer  may  be. 
Within  eight  or  ten  feet  of  a  snow  bank  linger 
ing  beneath  a  shadow,  you  may  see  belated 
ferns  unrolling  their  fronds  in  September,  and 
sedges  hurrying  up  their  brown  spikes  on 
ground  that  has  been  free  from  snow  only 
eight  or  ten  days,  and  likely  to  be  covered 
again  within  a  few  weeks;  the  winter  in  the 
coolest  of  these  shadow  gardens  being  about 
eleven  months  long,  while  spring,  summer,  and 
autumn  are  hurried  and  crowded  into  one 
month.  Again,  under  favorable  conditions, 
alpine  gardens  three  or  four  thousand  feet 
higher  than  the  last  are  in  their  prime  in  June. 
Between  the  Summit  peaks  at  the  head  of  the 
canons  surprising  effects  are  produced  where 
the  sunshine  falls  direct  on  rocky  slopes  and 
reverberates  among  boulders.  Toward  the 
end  of  August,  in  one  of  these  natural  hot 
houses  on  the  north  shore  of  a  glacier  lake 
eleven  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea,  I  found  a  luxuriant  growth  of  hairy 
lupines,  thistles,  goldenrods,  shrubby  poten- 
tilla,  spraguea,  and  the  mountain  epilobium 
with  thousands  of  purple  flowers  an  inch  wide, 
while  the  opposite  shore,  at  a  distance  of  only 
three  hundred  yards,  was  bound  in  heavy  ava 
lanche  snow,  —  flowery  summer  on  one  side, 

176 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

winter  on  the  other.  And  I  know  a  bench  gar 
den  on  the  north  wall  of  Yosemite  in  which  a 
few  flowers  are  in  bloom  all  winter;  the  mas 
sive  rocks  about  it  storing  up  sunshine  enough 
in  summer  to  melt  the  snow  about  as  fast  as  it 
falls.  When  tired  of  the  confinement  of  my 
cabin  I  used  to  camp  out  in  it  in  January,  and 
never  failed  to  find  flowers,  and  butterflies 
also,  except  during  snowstorms  and  a  few  days 
after. 

From  Yosemite  one  can  easily  walk  in  a  day 
to  the  top  of  Mount  Hoffman,  a  massive  gray 
mountain  that  rises  in  the  center  of  the  Park, 
with  easy  slopes  adorned  with  castellated  piles 
and  crests  on  the  south  side,  rugged  precipices 
banked  with  perpetual  snow  on  the  north. 
Most  of  the  broad  summit  is  comparatively 
level  and  smooth,  and  covered  with  crystals 
of  quartz,  mica,  hornblende,  feldspar,  garnet, 
zircon,  tourmaline,  etc.,  weathered  out  and 
strewn  loosely  as  if  sown  broadcast;  their  radi 
ance  so  dazzling  in  some  places  as  to  fairly  hide 
the  multitude  of  small  flowers  that  grow  among 
them;  myriads  of  keen  lance  rays  infinitely 
fine,  white  or  colored,  making  an  almost  con 
tinuous  glow  over  all  the  ground,  with  here 
and  there  throbbing,  spangling  lilies  of  light, 
on  the  larger  gems.  At  first  sight  only  these 
crystal  sunflowers  are  noticed,  but  looking 
177 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

closely  you  discover  minute  gilias,  ivesias, 
eunanus,  phloxes,  etc.,  in  thousands,  showing 
more  petals  than  leaves;  and  larger  plants  in 
hollows  and  on  the  borders  of  rills,  —  lupines, 
potentillas,  daisies,  harebells,  mountain  col 
umbine,  astragalus,  fringed  with  heathworts. 
You  wander  about  from  garden  to  garden  en 
chanted,  as  if  walking  among  stars,  gathering 
the  brightest  gems,  each  and  all  apparently 
doing  their  best  with  eager  enthusiasm,  as  if 
everything  depended  on  faithful  shining;  and 
considering  the  flowers  basking  in  the  glorious 
light,  many  of  them  looking  like  swarms  of 
small  moths  and  butterflies  that  were  resting 
after  long  dances  in  the  sunbeams.  Now  your 
attention  is  called  to  colonies  of  woodchucks 
and  pikas,  the  mounds  hi  front  of  their  bur 
rows  glittering  like  heaps  of  jewelry,  —  ro 
mantic  ground  to  live  in  or  die  in.  Now  you 
look  abroad  over  the  vast  round  landscape 
bounded  by  the  down-curving  sky,  nearly  all 
the  Park  in  it  displayed  like  a  map,  —  forests, 
meadows,  lakes,  rock  waves,  and  snowy  moun 
tains.  Northward  lies  the  basin  of  Yosemite 
Creek,  paved  with  bright  domes  and  lakes  like 
larger  crystals;  eastward,  the  meadowy,  billowy 
Tuolumne  region  and  the  Summit  peaks  in 
glorious  array;  southward,  Yosemite;  and 
westward,  the  boundless  forests.  On  no  other 

178 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

mountain  that  I  know  of  are  you  more  likely 
to  linger.  It  is  a  magnificent  camp  ground. 
Clumps  of  dwarf  pine  furnish  rosiny  roots  and 
branches  for  fuel,  and  the  rills  pure  water. 
Around  your  camp-fire  the  flowers  seem  to  be 
looking  eagerly  at  the  light,  and  the  crystals 
shine  unweariedly,  making  fine  company  as 
you  lie  at  rest  in  the  very  heart  of  the  vast, 
serene,  majestic  night. 

The  finest  of  the  glacier  meadow  gardens 
lie  at  an  elevation  of  about  nine  thousand  feet, 
imbedded  in  the  upper  pine  forests  like  lakes 
of  light.  They  are  smooth  and  level,  a  mile 
or  two  long,  and  the  rich,  well-drained  ground 
is  completely  covered  with  a  soft,  silky,  plushy 
sod  enameled  with  flowers,  not  one  of  which 
is  in  the  least  weedy  or  coarse.  In  some  places 
the  sod  is  so  crowded  with  showy  flowers  that 
the  grasses  are  scarce  noticed,  in  others  they 
are  rather  sparingly  scattered;  while  every  leaf 
and  flower  seems  to  have  its  winged  represen 
tative  in  the  swarms  of  happy  flower-like  in 
sects  that  enliven  the  air  above  them. 

With  the  winter  snowstorms  wings  and 
petals  are  folded,  and  for  more  than  half  the 
year  the  meadows  are  snow-buried  ten  or  fif 
teen  feet  deep.  In  June  they  begin  to  thaw 
out,  small  patches  of  the  dead  sloppy  sod  ap 
pear,  gradually  increasing  in  size  until  they 

179 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

are  free  and  warm  again,  face  to  face  with  the 
sky;  myriads  of  growing  points  push  through 
the  steaming  mould,  frogs  sing  cheeringly, 
soon  joined  by  the  birds,  and  the  merry  insects 
come  back  as  if  suddenly  raised  from  the  dead. 
Soon  the  ground  is  green  with  mosses  and  liver 
worts  and  dotted  with  small  fungi,  making 
the  first  crop  of  the  season.  Then  the  grass 
leaves  weave  a  new  sod,  and  the  exceedingly 
slender  panicles  rise  above  it  like  a  purple  mist, 
speedily  followed  by  potentilla,  ivesia,  bossy 
orthocarpus,  yellow  and  purple,  and  a  few 
pentstemons.  Later  come  the  daisies  and  gold- 
enrods,  asters  and  gentians.  Of  the  last  there 
are  three  species,  small  and  fine,  with  varying 
tones  of  blue,  and  in  glorious  abundance,  color 
ing  extensive  patches  where  the  sod  is  shal 
lowest.  Through  the  midst  flows  a  stream  only 
two  or  three  feet  wide,  silently  gliding  as  if 
careful  not  to  disturb  the  hushed  calm  of  the 
solitude,  its  banks  embossed  by  the  common  sod 
bent  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  trimmed 
with  mosses  and  violets;  slender  grass  panicles 
lean  over  like  miniature  pine  trees,  and  here 
and  there  on  the  driest  places  small  mats  of 
heathworts  are  neatly  spread,  enriching  with 
out  roughening  the  bossy  down-curling  sod. 
In  spring  and  summer  the  weather  is  mostly 
crisp,  exhilarating  sunshine,  though  magnifi- 

180 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

cent  mountain  ranges  of  cumuli  are  often 
upheaved  about  noon,  their  shady  hollows 
tinged  with  purple  ineffably  fine,  their  snowy 
sun-beaten  bosses  glowing  against  the  sky, 
casting  cooling  shadows  for  an  hour  or  two, 
then  dissolving  in  a  quick  washing  rain.  But 
for  days  in  succession  there  are  no  clouds  at 
all,  or  only  faint  wisps  and  pencilings  scarcely 
discernible. 

Toward  the  end  of  August  the  sunshine 
grows  hazy,  announcing  the  coming  of  Indian 
summer,  the  outlines  of  the  landscapes  are 
softened  and  mellowed,  and  more  and  more 
plainly  are  the  mountains  clothed  with  light, 
white  tinged  with  pale  purple,  richest  in  the 
morning  and  evening.  The  warm,  brooding  days 
are  full  of  life  and  thoughts  of  life  to  come, 
ripening  seeds  with  next  summer  in  them  or  a 
hundred  summers.  The  nights  are  unspeakably 
impressive  and  calm;  frost  crystals  of  won 
drous  beauty  grow  on  the  grass,  —  each  care 
fully  planned  and  finished  as  if  intended  to 
endure  forever.  The  sod  becomes  yellow  and 
brown,  but  the  late  asters  and  gentians,  care 
fully  closing  their  flowers  at  night,  do  not  seem 
to  feel  the  frost;  no  nipped,  wilted  plants  of  any 
kind  are  to  be  seen;  even  the  early  snowstorms 
fail  to  blight  them.  At  last  the  precious  seeds 
are  ripe,  all  the  work  of  the  season  is  done,  and 

181 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  sighing  pines  tell  the  coming  of  winter  and 
rest. 

Ascending  the  range  you  find  that  many  of 
the  higher  meadows  slope  considerably,  from 
the  amount  of  loose  material  washed  into  their 
basins;  and  sedges  and  rushes  are  mixed  with 
the  grasses  or  take  their  places,  though  all  are 
still  more  or  less  flowery  and  bordered  with 
heath  worts,  sibbaldea,  and  dwarf  willows. 
Here  and  there  you  come  to  small  bogs,  the 
wettest  smooth  and  adorned  with  parnassia 
and  buttercups,  others  tussocky  and  ruffled 
like  bits  of  Arctic  tundra,  their  mosses  and 
lichens  interwoven  with  dwarf  shrubs.  On 
boulder  piles  the  red  iridescent  oxyria  abounds, 
and  on  sandy,  gravelly  slopes  several  species 
of  shrubby,  yellow-flowered  eriogonum,  some 
of  the  plants,  less  than  a  foot  high,  being  very 
old,  a  century  or  more,  as  is  shown  by  the  rings 
made  by  the  annual  whorls  of  leaves  on  the 
big  roots.  Above  these  flower-dotted  slopes  the 
gray,  savage  wilderness  of  crags  and  peaks 
seems  lifeless  and  bare.  Yet  all  the  way  up  to 
the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains,  commonly 
supposed  to  be  covered  with  eternal  snow, 
there  are  bright  garden  spots  crowded  with 
flowers,  their  warm  colors  calling  to  mind  the 
sparks  and  jets  of  fire  on  polar  volcanoes  ris 
ing  above  a  world  of  ice.  The  principal  moun- 

182 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE    YOSEMITE 

tain-top  plants  are  phloxes,  drabas,  saxifrages, 
silene,  cymoptems,  hulsea,  and  polemonium, 
growing  in  detached  stripes  and  mats,  —  the 
highest  streaks  and  splashes  of  the  summer 
wave  as  it  breaks  against  these  wintry  heights. 
The  most  beautiful  are  the  phloxes  (Dovglasii 
and  ccespitosuiri) ,  and  the  red-flowered  silene, 
with  their  innumerable  flowers  which  hide  the 
leaves. 

Though  herbaceous  plants,  like  the  trees 
and  shrubs,  are  dwarfed  as  they  ascend,  two  of 
these  mountain  dwellers,  Hulsea  algida  and 
Polemonium  conferium,  are  notable  exceptions. 
The  yellow-flowered  hulsea  is  eight  to  twelve 
inches  high,  stout,  erect,  —  the  leaves,  three 
to  six  inches  long,  secreting  a  rosiny,  fragrant 
gum,  standing  up  boldly  on  the  grim  lichen- 
stained  crags,  and  never  looking  in  the  least 
tired  or  discouraged.  Both  the  ray  and  disk 
flowers  are  yellow;  the  heads  are  nearly  two 
inches  wide,  and  are  eagerly  sought  for  by 
roving  bee  mountaineers.  The  polemonium  is 
quite  as  luxuriant  and  tropical-looking  as  its 
companion,  about  the  same  height,  glandular, 
fragrant,  its  blue  flowers  closely  packed  in 
eight  or  ten  heads,  twenty  to  forty  in  a  head. 
It  is  never  far  from  hulsea,  growing  at  eleva 
tions  of  between  eleven  and  thirteen  thousand 
feet  wherever  a  little  hollow  or  crevice  favor- 

183 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ably  situated  with  a  handful  of  wind-driven 
soil  can  be  found. 

From  these  frosty  Arctic  sky  gardens  you 
may  descend  in  one  straight  swoop  to  the 
abronia,  mentzelia,  and  oenothera  gardens 
of  Mono,  where  the  sunshine  is  warm  enough 
for  palms. 

But  the  greatest  of  all  the  gardens  is  the 
belt  of  forest  trees,  profusely  covered  hi  the 
spring  with  blue  and  purple,  red  and  yellow 
blossoms,  each  tree  with  a  gigantic  panicle 
of  flowers  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet  long.  Yet 
strange  to  say  they  are  seldom  noticed.  Few 
travel  through  the  woods  when  they  are  in 
bloom,  the  flowers  of  some  of  the  showiest 
species  opening  before  the  snow  is  off  the 
ground.  Nevertheless,  one  would  think  the 
news  of  such  gigantic  flowers  would  quickly 
spread,  and  travelers  from  all  the  world  would 
make  haste  to  the  show.  Eager  inquiries  are 
made  for  the  bloomtime  of  rhododendron- 
covered  mountains  and  for  the  bloomtime  of 
Yosemite  streams,  that  they  may  be  enjoyed 
in  their  prime;  but  the  far  grander  outburst 
of  tree  bloom  covering  a  thousand  mountains 
-  who  inquires  about  that?  That  the  pistil 
late  flowers  of  the  pines  and  firs  should  escape 
the  eyes  of  careless  lookers  is  less  to  be  won 
dered  at,  since  they  mostly  grow  aloft  on  the 
184 


WILD  GARDENS  OF  THE    YOSEMITE 

topmost  branches,  and  can  hardly  be  seen 
from  the  foot  of  the  trees.  Yet  even  these 
make  a  magnificent  show  from  the  top  Of  an 
overlooking  ridge  when  the  sunbeams  are  pour 
ing  through  them.  But  the  far  more  numerous 
staminate  flowers  of  the  pines  in  large  rosy 
clusters,  and  those  of  the  silver  firs  in  countless 
thousands  on  the  under  side  of  the  branches, 
cannot  be  hid,  stand  where  you  may.  The 
mountain  hemlock  also  is  gloriously  colored 
with  a  profusion  of  lovely  blue  and  purple 
flowers,  a  spectacle  to  gods  and  men.  A  single 
pine  or  hemlock  or  silver  fir  in  the  prime  of  its 
beauty  about  the  middle  of  June  is  well  worth 
the  pains  of  the  longest  journey;  how  much 
more  broad  forests  of  them  thousands  of  miles 
long! 

One  of  the  best  ways  to  see  tree  flowers  is  to 
climb  one  of  the  tallest  trees  and  to  get  into 
close  tingling  touch  with  them,  and  then  look 
abroad.  Speaking  of  the  benefits  of  tree- 
climbing,  Thoreau  says:  "I  found  my  account 
in  climbing  a  tree  once.  It  was  a  tall  white  pine, 
on  the  top  of  a  hill;  and  though  I  got  well 
pitched,  I  was  well  paid  for  it,  for  I  discovered 
new  mountains  in  the  horizon  which  I  had 
never  seen  before.  I  might  have  walked  about 
the  foot  of  the  tree  for  threescore  years  and 
ten,  and  yet  I  certainly  should  never  have  seen 
185 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

them.  But,  above  all,  I  discovered  around 
me,  —  it  was  near  the  middle  of  June,  —  on 
the  ends  of  the  topmost  branches,  a  few  minute 
and  delicate  red  conelike  blossoms,  the  fertile 
flower  of  the  white  pine  looking  heavenward. 
I  carried  straightway  to  the  village  the  top 
most  spire,  and  showed  it  to  stranger  jurymen 
who  walked  the  streets,  —  for  it  was  court 
week,  —  and  to  farmers  and  lumbermen  and 
woodchoppers  and  hunters,  and  not  one  had 
ever  seen  the  like  before,  but  they  wondered 
as  at  a  star  dropped  down." 

The  same  marvelous  blindness  prevails 
here,  although  the  blossoms  are  a  thousand 
fold  more  abundant  and  telling.  Once  when  I 
was  collecting  flowers  of  the  red  silver  fir  near 
a  summer  tourist  resort  on  the  mountains 
above  Lake  Tahoe,  I  carried  a  handful  of 
flowery  branches  to  the  boarding  house,  where 
they  quickly  attracted  a  wondering,  admiring 
crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children.  "Oh, 
where  did  you  get  these?"  they  cried.  "How 
pretty  they  are  —  mighty  handsome  —  just  too 
lovely  for  anything  —  where  do  they  grow?" 
"On  the  commonest  trees  about  you,"  I  re 
plied.  "You  are  now  standing  beside  one  of 
them,  and  it  is  in  full  bloom;  look  up."  And 
I  pointed  to  a  blossom-laden  Abies  magnified, 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high,  in  front 

186 


WILD   GARDENS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

of  the  house,  used  as  a  hitching  post.  And 
seeing  its  beauty  for  the  first  time,  their  won 
der  could  hardly  have  been  greater  or  more 
sincere  had  their  silver  fir  hitching  post  blos 
somed  for  them  at  that  moment  as  suddenly 
as  Aaron's  rod. 

The  mountain  hemlock  extends  an  almost 
continuous  belt  along  the  Sierra  and  northern 
ranges  to  Prince  William's  Sound,  accompa 
nied  part  of  the  way  by  the  pines;  our  two  sil 
ver  firs,  to  Mount  Shasta,  thence  the  fir  belt  is 
continued  through  Oregon,  Washington,  and 
British  Columbia  by  four  other  species,  Abies 
nobilis,  grandis,  amabilis,  and  lasiocarpa;  while 
the  magnificent  Sitka  spruce,  with  large,  bright, 
purple  fiowers,  adorns  the  coast  region  from 
California  to  Cook's  Inlet  and  Kodiak.  All 
these,  interblending,  form  one  flowery  belt  - 
one  garden  blooming  in  June,  rocking  its 
myriad  spires  in  the  hearty  weather,  bowing 
and  swirling,  enjoying  clouds  and  the  winds  and 
filling  them  with  balsam;  covering  thousands 
of  miles  of  the  wildest  mountains,  clothing  the 
long  slopes  by  the  sea,  crowning  bluffs  and 
headlands  and  innumerable  islands,  and,  fring 
ing  the  banks  of  the  glaciers,  one  wild  wavering 
belt  of  the  noblest  flowers  in  the  world,  worth 
a  lifetime  of  love  work  to  know  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AMONG   THE   ANIMALS   OF   THE   YOSEMITE 

THE  Sierra  bear,  brown  or  gray,  the  sequoia 
of  the  animals,  tramps  over  all  the  park, 
though  few  travelers  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
him.  On  he  fares  through  the  majestic  forests 
and  canons,  facing  all  sorts  of  weather,  rejoic 
ing  in  his  strength,  everywhere  at  home,  har 
monizing  with  the  trees  and  rocks  and  shaggy 
chaparral.  Happy  fellow!  his  lines  have  fallen 
in  pleasant  places,  —  lily  gardens  in  silver-fir 
forests,  miles  of  bushes  in  endless  variety  and 
exuberance  of  bloom  over  hill-waves  and  val 
leys  and  along  the  banks  of  streams,  canons 
full  of  music  and  waterfalls,  parks  fair  as  Eden, 
—  places  in  which  one  might  expect  to  meet 
angels  rather  than  bears. 

In  this  happy  land  no  famine  comes  nigh 
him.  All  the  year  round  his  bread  is  sure,  for 
some  of  the  thousand  kinds  that  he  likes  are 
always  in  season  and  accessible,  ranged  on  the 
shelves  of  the  mountains  like  stores  in  a  pan 
try.  From  one  to  another,  from  climate  to 
climate,  up  and  down  he  climbs,  feasting  on 
each  in  turn,  —  enjoying  as  great  variety  as 
if  he  traveled  to  far-off  countries  north  and 

188 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

south.  To  him  almost  everything  is  food  ex 
cept  granite.  Every  tree  helps  to  feed  him, 
every  bush  and  herb,  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
leaves  and  bark;  and  all  the  animals  he  can 
catch,  —  badgers,  gophers,  ground  squirrels, 
lizards,  snakes,  etc.,  and  ants,  bees,  wasps, 
old  and  young,  together  with  their  eggs  and 
larvae  and  nests.  Craunched  and  hashed,  down 
all  go  to  his  marvelous  stomach,  and  vanish 
as  if  cast  into  a  fire.  What  digestion!  A  sheep 
or  a  wounded  deer  or  a  pig  he  eats  warm,  about 
as  quickly  as  a  boy  eats  a  buttered  muffin;  or 
should  the  meat  be  a  month  old,  it  still  is  wel 
comed  with  tremendous  relish.  After  so  gross 
a  meal  as  this,  perhaps  the  next  will  be  straw 
berries  and  clover,  or  raspberries  with  mush 
rooms  and  nuts,  or  puckery  acorns  and  choke- 
cherries.  And  as  if  fearing  that  anything 
eatable  in  all  his  dominions  should  escape  being 
eaten,  he  breaks  into  cabins  to  look  after  sugar, 
dried  apples,  bacon,  etc.  Occasionally  he -eats 
the  mountaineer's  bed;  but  when  he  has  had  a 
full  meal  of  more  tempting  dainties  he  usually 
leaves  it  undisturbed,  though  he  has  been 
known  to  drag  it  up  through  a  hole  in  the  roof, 
carry  it  to  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  lie  down  on  it 
to  enjoy  a  siesta.  Eating  everything,  never  is 
he  himself  eaten  except  by  man,  and  only  man 
is  an  enemy  to  be  feared.  "B'ar  meat,"  said 

189 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

a  hunter  from  whom  I  was  seeking  informa 
tion,  "b'ar  meat  is  the  best  meat  in  the  moun 
tains;  their  skins  make  the  best  beds,  and  their 
grease  the  best  butter.  Biscuit  shortened  with 
b'ar  grease  goes  as  far  as  beans;  a  man  will 
walk  all  day  on  a  couple  of  them  biscuit." 

In  my  first  interview  with  a  Sierra  bear  we 
were  frightened  and  embarrassed,  both  of  us, 
but  the  bear's  behavior  was  better  than  mine. 
When  I  discovered  him,  he  was  standing  in  a 
narrow  strip  of  meadow,  and  I  was  concealed 
behind  a  tree  on  the  side  of  it.  After  studying 
his  appearance  as  he  stood  at  rest,  I  rushed 
toward  him  to  frighten  him,  that  I  might  study 
his  gait  in  running.  But,  contrary  to  all  I  had 
heard  about  the  shyness  of  bears,  he  did  not 
run  at  all;  and  when  I  stopped  short  within  a 
few  steps  of  him,  as  he  held  his  ground  in  a 
fighting  attitude,  my  mistake  was  monstrously 
plain.  I  was  then  put  on  my  good  behavior, 
and  never  afterward  forgot  the  right  manners 
of  the  wilderness. 

This  happened  on  my  first  Sierra  excursion 
in  the  forest  to  the  north  of  Yosemite  Valley. 
I  was  eager  to  meet  the  animals,  and  many  of 
them  came  to  me  as  if  willing  to  show  them 
selves  and  make  my  acquaintance;  but  the 
bears  kept  out  of  my  way. 

An  old  mountaineer,  in  reply  to  my  ques- 

190 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

tions,  told  me  that  bears  were  very  shy,  all  save 
grim  old  grizzlies,  and  that  I  might  travel  the 
mountains  for  years  without  seeing  one,  unless 
I  gave  my  mind  to  them  and  practiced  the 
stealthy  ways  of  hunters.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  only  a  few  weeks  after  I  had  received  this 
information  that  I  met  the  one  mentioned 
above,  and  obtained  instruction  at  first-hand. 

I  was  encamped  in  the  w^oods  about  a  mile 
back  of  the  rim  of  Yosemite,  beside  a  stream 
that  falls  into  the  valley  by  the  way  of  Indian 
Canon.  Nearly  every  day  for  weeks  I  went  to 
the  top  of  the  North  Dome  to  sketch;  for  it 
commands  a  general  view  of  the  valley,  and  I 
was  anxious  to  draw  every  tree  and  rock  and 
waterfall.  Carlo,  a  St.  Bernard  dog,  was  my 
companion,  —  a  fine,  intelligent  fellow  that 
belonged  to  a  hunter  who  was  compelled  to 
remain  all  summer  on  the  hot  plains,  and  who 
loaned  him  to  me  for  the  season  for  the  sake 
of  having  him  in  the  mountains,  where  he 
would  be  so  much  better  off.  Carlo  knew 
bears  through  long  experience,  and  he  it  was 
who  led  me  to  my  first  interview,  though  he 
seemed  as  much  surprised  as  the  bear  at  my 
unhunter-like  behavior.  One  morning  in  June, 
just  as  the  sunbeams  began  to  stream  through 
the  trees,  I  set  out  for  a  day's  sketching  on 
the  dome;  and  before  we  had  gone  half  a  mile 

191 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

from  camp  Carlo  snuffed  the  air  and  looked 
cautiously  ahead,  lowered  his  bushy  tail, 
drooped  his  ears,  and  began  to  step  softly  like 
a  cat,  turning  every  few  yards  and  looking  me 
in  the  face  with  a  telling  expression,  saying 
plainly  enough,  "There  is  a  bear  a  little  way 
ahead."  I  walked  carefully  in  the  indicated 
direction,  until  I  approached  a  small  flowery 
meadow  that  I  was  familiar  with,  then  crawled 
to  the  foot  of  a  tree  on  its  margin,  bearing  in 
mind  what  I  had  been  told  about  the  shyness 
of  bears.  Looking  out  cautiously  over  the  in 
step  of  the  tree,  I  saw  a  big,  burly  cinnamon 
bear  about  thirty  yards  off,  half  erect,  his 
paws  resting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fir  that  had 
fallen  into  the  meadow,  his  hips  almost  buried 
in  grass  and  flowers.  He  was  listening  atten 
tively  and  trying  to  catch  the  scent,  showing 
that  in  some  way  he  was  aware  of  our  approach. 
I  watched  his  gestures,  and  tried  to  make  the 
most  of  my  opportunity  to  learn  what  I  could 
about  him,  fearing  he  would  not  stay  long.  He 
made  a  fine  picture,  standing  alert  in  the 
sunny  garden  walled  in  by  the  most  beautiful 
firs  in  the  world. 

After  examining  him  at  leisure,  noting  the 
sharp  muzzle  thrust  inquiringly  forward,  the 
long  shaggy  hair  on  his  broad  chest,  the  stiff 
ears  nearly  buried  in  hah1,  and  the  slow,  heavy 

192 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

way  in  which  he  moved  his  head,  I  foolishly 
made  a  rush  on  him,  throwing  up  my  arms 
and  shouting  to  frighten  him,  to  see  him  run. 
He  did  not  mind  the  demonstration  much ;  only 
pushed  his  head  farther  forward,  and  looked 
at  me  sharply  as  if  asking,  "  What  now?  If  you 
want  to  fight,  I'm  ready."  Then  I  began  to 
fear  that  on  me  would  fall  the  work  of  running. 
But  I  was  afraid  to  run,  lest  he  should  be 
encouraged  to  pursue  me;  therefore  I  held  my 
ground,  staring  him  in  the  face  within  a  dozen 
yards  or  so,  putting  on  as  bold  a  look  as  I 
could,  and  hoping  the  influence  of  the  human 
eye  would  be  as  great  as  it  is  said  to  be.  Under 
these  strained  relations  the  interview  seemed 
to  last  a  long  time.  Finally,  the  bear,  seeing 
how  still  I  was,  calmly  withdrew  his  huge 
paws  from  the  log,  gave  me  a  piercing  look,  as 
if  warning  me  not  to  follow  him,  turned,  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  middle  of  the  meadow 
into  the  forest;  stopping  every  few  steps  and 
looking  back  to  make  sure  that  I  was  not  try 
ing  to  take  him  at  a  disadvantage  in  a  rear 
attack.  I  was  glad  to  part  with  him,  and 
greatly  enjoyed  the  vanishing  view  as  he 
waded  through  the  lilies  and  columbines. 

Thenceforth  I  always  tried  to  give  bears  re 
spectful  notice  of  my  approach,  and  they  usu 
ally  kept  well  out  of  my  way.  Though  they 

193 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

often  came  around  my  camp  in  the  night,  only 
once  afterward,  as  far  as  I  know,  was  I  very 
near  one  of  them  in  daylight.  This  time  it  was 
a  grizzly  I  met;  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  I 
was  even  nearer  to  him  than  I  had  been  to  the 
big  cinnamon.  Though  not  a  large  specimen, 
he  seemed  formidable  enough  at  a  distance  of 
less  than  a  dozen  yards.  His  shaggy  coat  was 
well  grizzled,  his  head  almost  white.  When  I 
first  caught  sight  of  him  he  was  eating  acorns 
under  a  Kellogg  oak,  at  a  distance  of  perhaps 
seventy-five  yards,  and  I  tried  to  slip  past 
without  disturbing  him.  But  he  had  either 
heard  my  steps  on  the  gravel  or  caught  my 
scent,  for  he  came  straight  toward  me,  stop 
ping  every  rod  or  so  to  look  and  listen :  and  as 
I  was  afraid  to  be  seen  running,  I  crawled  on 
my  hands  and  knees  a  little  way  to  one  side  and 
hid  behind  a  libocedrus,  hoping  he  would  pass 
me  unnoticed.  He  soon  came  up  opposite  me, 
and  stood  looking  ahead,  while  I  looked  at 
him,  peering  past  the  bulging  trunk  of  the  tree. 
At  last,  turning  his  head,  he  caught  sight  of 
mine,  stared  sharply  a  minute  or  two,  and  then, 
with  fine  dignity,  disappeared  in  a  manzanita- 
covered  earthquake  talus. 

Considering  how  heavy  and  broad-footed 
bears  are,  it  is  wonderful  how  little  harm 
they  do  in  the  wilderness.  Even  in  the  well- 

194 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

watered  gardens  of  the  middle  region,  where 
the  flowers  grow  tallest,  and  where  during 
warm  weather  the  bears  wallow  and  roll,  no 
evidence  of  destruction  is  visible.  On  the  con 
trary,  under  nature's  direction,  the  massive 
beasts  act  as  gardeners.  On  the  forest  floor, 
carpeted  with  needles  and  brush,  and  on  the 
tough  sod  of  glacier  meadows,  bears  make  no 
mark;  but  around  the  sandy  margin  of  lakes 
their  magnificent  tracks  form  grand  lines  of  em 
broidery.  Their  well-worn  trails  extend  along 
the  main  canons  on  either  side,  and  though 
dusty  in  some  places  make  no  scar  on  the  land 
scape.  They  bite  and  break  off  the  branches  of 
some  of  the  pines  and  oaks  to  get  the  nuts, 
but  this  pruning  is  so  light  that  few  moun 
taineers  ever  notice  it;  and  though  they  inter 
fere  with  the  orderly  lichen-veiled  decay  of 
fallen  trees,  tearing  them  to  pieces  to  reach 
the  colonies  of  ants  that  inhabit  them,  the 
scattered  ruins  are  quickly  pressed  back  into 
harmony  by  snow  and  rain  and  over-leaning 
vegetation. 

The  number  of  bears  that  make  the  Park 
their  home  may  be  guessed  by  the  number  that 
have  been  killed  by  the  two  best  hunters,  Dun 
can  and  old  David  Brown.  Duncan  began  to 
be  known  as  a  bear-killer  about  the  year 
1865.  He  was  then  roaming  the  woods,  hunt- 

195 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  and  prospecting  on  the  south  fork  of  the 
Merced.  A  friend  told  me  that  he  killed  his 
first  bear  near  his  cabin  at  Wawona;  that  after 
mustering  courage  to  fire  he  fled,  without  wait 
ing  to  learn  the  effect  of  his  shot.  Going  back 
in  a  few  hours  he  found  poor  Bruin  dead,  and 
gained  courage  to  try  again.  Duncan  confessed 
to  me,  when  we  made  an  excursion  together  in 
1875,  that  he  was  at  first  mortally  afraid  of 
bears,  but  after  killing  a  half  dozen  he  began 
to  keep  count  of  his  victims,  and  became  am 
bitious  to  be  known  as  a  great  bear-hunter. 
In  nine  years  he  had  killed  forty-nine,  keeping 
count  by  notches  cut  on  one  of  the  timbers  of 
his  cabin  on  the  shore  of  Crescent  Lake,  near 
the  south  boundary  of  the  Park.  He  said  the 
more  he  knew  about  bears,  the  more  he  re 
spected  them  and  the  less  he  feared  them.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  grew  more  and  more  cau 
tious,  and  never  fired  until  he  had  every  ad 
vantage,  no  matter  how  long  he  had  to  wait 
and  how  far  he  had  to  go  before  he  got  the  bear 
just  right  as  to  the  direction  of  the  wind,  the 
distance,  and  the  way  of  escape  in  case  of 
accident ;  making  allowance  also  for  the  char 
acter  of  the  animal,  old  or  young,  cinnamon  or 
grizzly.  For  old  grizzlies,  he  said,  he  had  no 
use  whatever,  and  he  was  mighty  careful  to 
avoid  their  acquaintance.  He  wanted  to  kill 

196 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

an  even  hundred ;  then  he  was  going  to  confine 
himself  to  safer  game.  There  was  not  much 
money  in  bears,  anyhow,  and  a  round  hundred 
was  enough  for  glory. 

I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  lately,  and 
do  not  know  how  his  bloody  count  stands.  On 
my  excursions,  I  occasionally  passed  his  cabin. 
It  was  full  of  meat  and  skins  hung  in  bundles 
from  the  rafters,  and  the  ground  about  it  was 
strewn  with  bones  and  hair,  —  infinitely  less 
tidy  than  a  bear's  den.  He  went  as  hunter  and 
guide  with  a  geological  survey  party  for  a  year 
or  two,  and  was  very  proud  of  the  scientific 
knowledge  he  picked  up.  His  admiring  fellow 
mountaineers,  he  said,  gave  him  credit  for 
knowing  not  only  the  botanical  names  of  all 
the  trees  and  bushes,  but  also  the  "botanical 
names  of  the  bears." 

The  most  famous  hunter  of  the  region  was 
David  Brown,  an  old  pioneer,  who  early  in  the 
gold  period  established  his  main  camp  in  a  little 
forest  glade  on  the  north  fork  of  the  Merced, 
which  is  still  called  "  Brown's  Flat."  No  finer 
solitude  for  a  hunter  and  prospector  could  be 
found ;  the  climate  is  delightful  all  the  year,  and 
the  scenery  of  both  earth  and  sky  is  a  perpetual 
feast.  Though  he  was  not  much  of  a  "scenery 
fellow,"  his  friends  say  that  he  knew  a  pretty 
place  when  he  saw  it  as  well  as  any  one,  and 

197 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

liked  mightily  to  get  on  the  top  of  a  command 
ing  ridge  to  "look  off." 

When  out  of  provisions,  he  would  take  down 
his  old-fashioned  long-barreled  rifle  from  its 
deer-horn  rest  over  the  fireplace  and  set  out  hi 
search  of  game.  Seldom  did  he  have  to  go  far 
for  venison,  because  the  deer  liked  the  wooded 
slopes  of  Pilot  Peak  ridge,  with  its  open  spots 
where  they  could  rest  and  look  about  them,  and 
enjoy  the  breeze  from  the  sea  in  warm  weather, 
free  from  troublesome  flies,  while  they  found 
hiding-places  and  fine  aromatic  food  in  the 
deer-brush  chaparral.  A  small,  wise  dog  was 
his  only  companion,  and  well  the  little  moun 
taineer  understood  the  object  of  every  hunt, 
whether  deer  or  bears,  or  only  grouse  hidden 
in  the  fir-tops.  In  deer-hunting  Sandy  had 
little  to  do,  trotting  behind  his  master  as  he 
walked  noiselessly  through  the  fragrant  woods, 
careful  not  to  step  heavily  on  dry  twigs,  scan 
ning  open  spots  in  the  chaparral  where  the 
deer  feed  in  the  early  morning  and  toward  sun 
set,  peering  over  ridges  and  swells  as  new  out 
looks  were  reached,  and  along  alder  and  willow 
fringed  flats  and  streams,  until  he  found  a 
young  buck,  killed  it,  tied  its  legs  together, 
threw  it  on  his  shoulder,  and  so  back  to  camp. 
But  when  bears  were  hunted,  Sandy  played  an 
important  part  as  leader,  and  several  times 

198 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

slaved  his  master's  life;  and  it  was  as  a  bear- 
hunter  that  David  Brown  became  famous. 
His  method,  as  I  had  it  from  a  friend  who  had 
passed  many  an  evening  in  his  cabin  listening 
to  his  long  stories  of  adventure,  was  simply  to 
take  a  few  pounds  of  flour  and  his  rifle,  and 
go  slowly  and  silently  over  hill  and  valley  in 
the  loneliest  part  of  the  wilderness,  until  little 
Sandy  came  upon  the  fresh  track  of  a  bear, 
then  follow  it  to  the  death,  paying  no  heed  to 
time.  Wherever  the  bear  went  he  went,  how 
ever  rough  the  ground,  led  by  Sandy,  who 
looked  back  from  time  to  time  to  see  how  his 
master  was  coming  on,  and  regulated  his  face 
accordingly,  never  growing  weary  or  allowing 
any  other  track  to  divert  him.  When  high 
ground  was  reached  a  halt  was  made,  to  scan 
the  openings  in  every  direction,  and  perchance 
Bruin  would  be  discovered  sitting  upright  on 
his  haunches,  eating  manzanita  berries ;  pulling 
down  the  fruit-laden  branches  with  his  paws 
and  pressing  them  together,  so  as  to  get  sub 
stantial  mouthfuls,  however  mixed  with  leaves 
and  twigs.  The  tune  of  year  enabled  the  hunter 
to  determine  approximately  where  the  game 
would  be  found:  in  spring  and  early  summer, 
in  lush  grass  and  clover  meadows  and  in  berry 
tangles  along  the  banks  of  streams,  or  on  pea- 
vine  and  lupine  clad  slopes;  in  late  summer 

199 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  autumn,  beneath  the  pines,  eating  the 
cones  cut  off  by  the  squirrels,  and  in  oak  groves 
at  the  bottom  of  canons,  munching  acorns, 
manzanita  berries,  and  cherries;  and  after 
snow  had  fallen,  in  alluvial  bottoms,  feeding 
on  ants  and  yellow-jacket  wasps.  These  food 
places  were  always  cautiously  approached,  so 
as  to  avoid  the  chance  of  sudden  encounters. 

"Whenever,"  said  the  hunter,  "  I  saw  a 
bear  before  he  saw  me,  I  had  no  trouble  in  kill 
ing  him.  I  just  took  lots  of  tune  to  learn  what 
he  was  up  to  and  how  long  he  would  be  likely 
to  stay,  and  to  study  the  direction  of  the  wind 
and  the  lay  of  the  land.  Then  I  worked  round 
to  leeward  of  him,  no  matter  how  far  I  had  to 
go;  crawled  and  dodged  to  within  a  hundred 
yards,  near  the  foot  of  a  tree  that  I  could  climb, 
but  which  was  too  small  for  a  bear  to  climb. 
There  I  looked  well  to  the  priming  of  my  rifle, 
took  off  my  boots  so  as  to  climb  quickly  if 
necessary,  and,  with  my  rifle  in  rest  and  Sandy 
behind  me,  waited  until  my  bear  stood  right, 
when  I  made  a  sure,  or  at  least  a  good  shot 
back  of  the  fore  leg.  In  case  he  showed  fight, 
I  got  up  the  tree  I  had  in  mind,  before  he  could 
reach  me.  But  bears  are  slow  and  awkward 
with  their  eyes,  and  being  to  windward  they 
could  not  scent  me,  and  often  I  got  in  a  second 
shot  before  they  saw  the  smoke.  Usually, 
200 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

however,  they  tried  to  get  away  when  they 
were  hurt,  and  I  let  them  go  a  good  safe  while 
before  I  ventured  into  the  brush  after  them. 
Then  Sandy  was  pretty  sure  to  find  them  dead; 
if  not,  he  barked  bold  as  a  lion  to  draw  atten 
tion,  or  rushed  in  and  nipped  them  behind, 
enabling  me  to  get  to  a  safe  distance  and  watch 
a  chance  for  a  finishing  shot. 

"Oh  yes,  bear-hunting  is  a  mighty  interest 
ing  business,  and  safe  enough  if  followed  just 
right,  though,  like  every  other  business,  espe 
cially  the  wild  kind,  it  has  its  accidents,  and 
Sandy  and  I  have  had  close  calls  at  times. 
Bears  are  nobody's  fools,  and  they  know  enough 
to  let  men  alone  as  a  general  thing,  unless  they 
are  wounded,  or  cornered,  or  have  cubs.  In  my 
opinion,  a  hungry  old  mother  would  catch  and 
eat  a  man,  if  she  could;  which  is  only  fair  play, 
anyhow,  for  we  eat  them.  But  nobody,  as  far 
as  I  know,  has  been  eaten  up  in  these  rich 
mountains.  Why  they  never  tackle  a  fellow 
when  he  is  lying  asleep  I  never  could  under 
stand.  They  could  gobble  us  mighty  handy, 
but  I  suppose  it's  nature  to  respect  a  sleeping 
man." 

Sheep-owners  and  their  shepherds  have 
killed  a  great  many  bears,  mostly  by  poison 
and  traps  of  various  sorts.  Bears  are  fond  of 
mutton,  and  levy  heavy  toll  on  every  flock 

201 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

driven  into  the  mountains.  They  usually  come 
to  the  corral  at  night,  climb  in,  kill  a  sheep 
with  a  stroke  of  the  paw,  carry  it  off  a  little 
distance,  eat  about  half  of  it,  and  return  the 
next  night  for  the  other  half;  and  so  on  all 
summer,  or  until  they  are  themselves  killed. 
It  is  not,  however,  by  direct  killing,  but  by 
suffocation  through  crowding  against  the  cor 
ral  wall  in  fright,  that  the  greatest  losses  are 
incurred.  From  ten  to  fifteen  sheep  are  found 
dead,  smothered  in  the  corral,  after  every 
attack;  or  the  walls  are  broken,  and  the  flock 
is  scattered  far  and  wide.  A  flock  may  escape 
the  attention  of  these  marauders  for  a  week 
or  two  in  the  spring;  but  after  their  first  taste 
of  the  fine  mountain-fed  meat  the  visits  are 
persistently  kept  up,  in  spite  of  all  precautions. 
Once  I  spent  a  night  with  two  Portuguese 
shepherds,  who  were  greatly  troubled  with 
bears,  from  two  to  four  or  five  visiting  them 
almost  every  night.  Their  camp  was  near  the 
middle  of  the  Park,  and  the  wicked  bears,  they 
said,  were  getting  worse  and  worse.  Not  wait 
ing  now  until  dark,  they  came  out  of  the  brush 
in  broad  daylight,  and  boldly  carried  off  as 
many  sheep  as  they  liked.  One  evening,  before 
sundown,  a  bear,  followed  by  two  cubs,  came 
for  an  early  supper,  as  the  flock  was  being 
slowly  driven  toward  the  camp.  Joe,  the  elder 

202 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

of  the  shepherds,  warned  by  many  exciting 
experiences,  promptly  climbed  a  tall  tamarack 
pine,  and  left  the  freebooters  to  help  them 
selves;  while  Antone,  calling  him  a  coward, 
and  declaring  that  he  was  not  going  to  let 
bears  eat  up  his  sheep  before  his  face,  set  the 
dogs  on  them,  and  rushed  toward  them  with  a 
great  noise  and  a  stick.  The  frightened  cubs 
ran  up  a  tree,  and  the  mother  ran  to  meet  the 
shepherd  and  dogs.  Antone  stood  astonished 
for  a  moment,  eyeing  the  oncoming  bear;  then 
fled  faster  than  Joe  had,  closely  pursued.  He 
scrambled  to  the  roof  of  their  little  cabin,  the 
only  refuge  quickly  available;  and  fortunately, 
the  bear,  anxious  about  her  young,  did  not 
climb  after  him,  —  only  held  him  in  mortal 
terror  a  few  minutes,  glaring  and  threatening, 
then  hastened  back  to  her  cubs,  called  them 
down,  went  to  the  frightened,  huddled  flock, 
killed  a  sheep,  and  feasted  in  peace.  Antone 
piteously  entreated  cautious  Joe  to  show  him 
a  good  safe  tree,  up  which  he  climbed  like  a 
sailor  climbing  a  mast,  and  held  on  as  long  as 
he  could  with  legs  crossed,  the  slim  pine  recom 
mended  by  Joe  being  nearly  branchless.  "So 
you,  too,  are  a  bear  coward  as  well  as  Joe,"  I 
said,  after  hearing  the  story.  "Oh,  I  tell  you," 
he  replied,  with  grand  solemnity,  "bear  face 
close  by  look  awful;  she  just  as  soon  eat  me 

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OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

as  not.  She  do  so  as  eef  all  my  sheeps  b'long 
every  one  to  her  own  self.  I  run  to  bear  no 
more.  I  take  tree  every  time." 

After  this  the  shepherds  corraled  the  flock 
about  an  hour  before  sundown,  chopped  large 
quantities  of  dry  wood  and  made  a  circle  of 
fires  around  the  corral  every  night,  and  one 
with  a  gun  kept  watch  on  a  stage  built  in  a 
pine  by  the  side  of  the  cabin,  while  the  other 
slept.  But  after  the  first  night  or  two  this  fire 
fence  did  no  good,  for  the  robbers  seemed  to 
regard  the  light  as  an  advantage,  after  becom 
ing  used  to  it. 

On  the  night  I  spent  at  their  camp  the  show 
made  by  the  wall  of  fire  when  it  was  blazing 
in  its  prime  was  magnificent,  —  the  illumined 
trees  round  about  relieved  against  solid  dark 
ness,  and  the  two  thousand  sheep  lying  down 
in  one  gray  mass,  sprinkled  with  gloriously 
brilliant  gems,  the  effect  of  the  firelight  in 
their  eyes.  It  was  nearly  midnight  when  a 
pair  of  the  freebooters  arrived.  They  walked 
boldly  through  a  gap  in  the  fire  circle,  killed 
two  sheep,  carried  them  out,  and  vanished  in 
the  dark  woods,  leaving  ten  dead  in  a  pile, 
trampled  down  and  smothered  against  the  cor 
ral  fence;  while  the  scared  watcher  in  the  tree 
did  not  fire  a  single  shot,  saying  he  was  afraid 
he  would  hit  some  of  the  sheep,  as  the  bears 

204 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

got  among  them  before  he  could  get  a  good 
sight. 

In  the  morning  I  asked  the  shepherds  why 
they  did  not  move  the  flock  to  a  new  pas 
ture.  "Oh,  no  use!"  cried  Antone.  "Look  my 
dead  sheeps.  We  move  three  four  time  be 
fore,  all  the  same  bear  come  by  the  track.  No 
use.  To-morrow  we  go  home  below.  Look  my 
dead  sheeps.  Soon  all  dead." 

Thus  were  they  driven  out  of  the  mountains 
more  than  a  month  before  the  usual  time. 
After  Uncle  Sam's  soldiers,  bears  are  the  most 
effective  forest  police,  but  some  of  the  shep 
herds  are  very  successful  in  killing  them.  Alto 
gether,  by  hunters,  mountaineers,  Indians, 
and  sheepmen,  probably  five  or  six  hundred 
have  been  killed  within  the  bounds  of  the  Park, 
during  the  last  thirty  years.  But  they  are  not 
in  danger  of  extinction.  Now  that  the  Park  is 
guarded  by  soldiers,  not  only  has  the  vegeta 
tion  in  great  part  come  back  to  the  desolate 
ground,  but  all  the  wild  animals  are  increasing 
in  numbers.  No  guns  are  allowed  in  the  Park 
except  under  certain  restrictions,  and  after 
a  permit  has  been  obtained  from  the  officer 
in  charge.  This  has  stopped  the  barbarous 
slaughter  of  bears,  and  especially  of  deer,  by 
shepherds,  hunters,  and  hunting  tourists,  who,  it 
would  seem,  can  find  no  pleasure  without  blood. 
205 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  Sierra  deer  —  the  blacktail  —  spend  the 
winters  in  the  brushy  and  exceedingly  rough 
region  just  below  the  main  timber-belt,  and  are 
less  accessible  to  hunters  there  than  when  they 
are  passing  through  the  comparatively  open 
forests  to  and  from  their  summer  pastures 
near  the  summits  of  the  range.  They  go  up  the 
mountains  early  in  the  spring  as  the  snow  melts, 
not  waiting  for  it  all  to  disappear;  reaching  the 
high  Sierra  about  the  first  of  June,  and  the 
coolest  recesses  at  the  base  of  the  peaks  a  month 
or  so  later.  I  have  tracked  them  for  miles  over 
compacted  snow  from  three  to  ten  feet  deep. 

Deer  are  capital  mountaineers,  making  their 
way  into  the  heart  of  the  roughest  mountains; 
seeking  not  only  pasturage,  but  a  cool  climate, 
and  safe  hidden  places  in  which  to  bring  forth 
their  young.  They  are  not  supreme  as  rock- 
climbing  animals;  they  take  second  rank,  yield 
ing  the  first  to  the  mountain  sheep,  which  dwell 
above  them  on  the  highest  crags  and  peaks. 
Still,  the  two  meet  frequently;  for  the  deer 
climbs  all  the  peaks  save  the  lofty  summits 
above  the  glaciers,  crossing  piles  of  angular 
boulders,  roaring  swollen  streams,  and  sheer- 
walled  canons  by  fords  and  passes  that  would 
try  the  nerves  of  the  hardiest  mountaineers,  — 
climbing  with  graceful  ease  and  reserve  of 
strength  that  cannot  fail  to  arouse  admiration. 
206 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

Everywhere  some  species  of  deer  seems  to  be 
at  home,  —  on  rough  or  smooth  ground,  low-, 
lands  or  highlands,  in  swamps  and  barrens  and 
the  densest  woods,  in  varying  climates,  hot  or 
cold,  over  all  the  continent;  maintaining  glori 
ous  health,  never  making  an  awkward  step. 
Standing,  lying  down,  walking,  feeding,  run 
ning  even  for  life,  it  is  always  invincibly  grace 
ful,  and  adds  beauty  and  animation  to  every 
landscape,  —  a  charming  annual,  and  a  great 
credit  to  nature.  -. 

I  never  see  one  of  the  common  blacktail 
deer,  the  only  species  in  the  Park,  without 
fresh  admiration;  and  since  I  never  carry  a  gun 
I  see  them  well:  lying  beneath  a  juniper  or 
dwarf  pine,  among  the  brown  needles  on  the 
brink  of  some  cliff  or  the  end  of  a  ridge  com 
manding  a  wide  outlook;  feeding  in  sunny  open 
ings  among  chaparral,  daintily  selecting  aro 
matic  leaves  and  twigs;  leading  their  fawns 
out  of  my  way,  or  making  them  lie  down  and 
hide;  bounding  past  through  the  forest,  or 
curiously  advancing  and  retreating  again  and 
again. 

One  morning  when  I  was  eating  breakfast 
in  a  little  garden  spot  on  the  Kaweah,  hedged 
around  with  chaparral,  I  noticed  a  deer's  head 
thrust  through  the  bushes,  the  big  beautiful 
eyes  gazing  at  me.  I  kept  still,  and  the  deer 
207 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ventured  forward  a  step,  then  snorted  and 
•  withdrew.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  and 
came  into  the  open  garden,  stepping  with 
infinite  grace,  followed  by  two  others.  After 
showing  themselves  for  a  moment,  they 
bounded  over  the  hedge  with  sharp,  timid 
snorts  and  vanished.  But  curiosity  brought 
them  back  with  still  another,  and  all  four  came 
into  my  garden,  and,  satisfied  that  I  meant 
them  no  ill,  began  to  feed,  actually  eating 
breakfast  with  me,  like  tame,  gentle  sheep 
around  a  shepherd,  —  rare  company,  and  the 
most  graceful  in  movements  and  attitudes.  I 
eagerly  watched  them  while  they  fed  on  ceano- 
thus  and  wild  cherry,  daintily  culling  single 
leaves  here  and  there  from  the  side  of  the  hedge, 
turning  now  and  then  to  snip  a  few  leaves  of 
mint  from  the  midst  of  the  garden  flowers. 
Grass  they  did  not  eat  at  all.  No  wonder  the 
contents  of  the  deer's  stomach  are  eaten  by  the 
Indians. 

While  exploring  the  upper  canon  of  the  north 
fork  of  the  San  Joaquin,  one  evening,  the  sky 
threatening  rain,  I  searched  for  a  dry  bed,  and 
made  choice  of  a  big  juniper  that  had  been 
pushed  down  by  a  snow  avalanche,  but  was 
resting  stubbornly  on  its  knees  high  enough 
to  let  me  lie  under  its  broad  trunk.  Just  below 
my  shelter  there  was  another  juniper  on  the 

208 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

very  brink  of  a  precipice,  and,  examining  it,  I 
found  a  deer-bed  beneath  it,  completely  pro 
tected  and  concealed  by  drooping  branches, 
a  fine  refuge  and  lookout  as  well  as  resting- 
place.  About  an  hour  before  dark  I  heard  the 
clear,  sharp  snorting  of  a  deer,  and  looking 
down  on  the  brushy,  rocky  canon  bottom,  dis 
covered  an  anxious  doe  that  no  doubt  had  her 
fawns  concealed  near  by.  She  bounded  over 
the  chaparral  and  up  the  farther  slope  of  the 
wall,  often  stopping  to  look  back  and  listen, 
—  a  fine  picture  of  vivid,  eager  alertness.  I 
sat  perfectly  still,  and  as  my  shirt  was  colored 
like  the  juniper  bark  I  was  not  easily  seen. 
After  a  little  she  came  cautiously  toward  me, 
sniffing  the  ah*  and  grazing,  and  her  move 
ments,  as  she  descended  the  canon  side  over 
boulder  piles  and  brush  and  fallen  timber, 
were  admirably  strong  and  beautiful;  she 
never  strained  or  made  apparent  efforts,  al 
though  jumping  high  here  and  there.  As  she 
drew  nigh  she  sniffed  anxiously,  trying  the  air 
in  different  directions  until  she  caught  my 
scent ;  then  bounded  off,  and  vanished  behind 
a  small  grove  of  firs.  Soon  she  came  back  with 
the  same  caution  and  insatiable  curiosity,  — 
coming  and  going  five  or  six  tunes.  While  I 
sat  admiring  her,  a  Douglas  squirrel,  evi 
dently  excited  by  her  noisy  alarms,  climbed  a 
209 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

boulder  beneath  me,  and  witnessed  her  per 
formances  as  attentively  as  I  did,  while  a 
frisky  chipmunk,  too  restless  or  hungry  for 
such  shows,  busied  himself  about  his  supper  in 
a  thicket  of  shadbushes,  the  fruit  of  which  was 
then  ripe,  glancing  about  on  the  slender  twigs 
lightly  as  a  sparrow. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  Indian  summer,  when 
the  young  are  strong,  the  deer  begin  to  gather 
in  little  bands  of  from  six  to  fifteen  or  twenty, 
and  on  the  approach  of  the  first  snowstorm 
they  set  out  on  their  march  down  the  moun 
tains  to  their  winter  quarters;  lingering  usu 
ally  on  warm  hillsides  and  spurs  eight  or  ten 
miles  below  the  summits,  as  if  loath  to  leave. 
About  the  end  of  November,  a  heavy,  far- 
reaching  storm  drives  them  down  in  haste 
along  the  dividing  ridges  between  the  rivers, 
led  by  old  experienced  bucks  whose  knowledge 
of  the  topography  is  wonderful. 

It  is  when  the  deer  are  coming  down  that 
the  Indians  set  out  on  then-  grand  fall  hunt. 
Too  lazy  to  go  into  the  recesses  of  the  moun 
tains  away  from  trails,  they  wait  for  the  deer 
to  come  out,  and  then  waylay  them.  This 
plan  also  has  the  advantage  of  finding  them 
in  bands.  Great  preparations  are  made.  Old 
guns  are  mended,  bullets  moulded,  and  the 
hunters  wash  themselves  and  fast  to  some 
210 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

extent,  to  insure  good  luck,  as  they  say.  Men 
and  women,  old  and  young,  set  forth  together. 
Central  camps  are  made  on  the  well-known 
highways  of  the  deer,  which  are  soon  red  with 
blood.  Each  hunter  comes  in  laden,  old 
crones  as  well  as  maidens  smiling  on  the  lucki 
est.  All  grow  fat  and  merry.  Boys,  each  armed 
with  an  antlered  head,  play  at  buck-fighting, 
and  plague  the  industrious  women,  who  are 
busily  preparing  the  meat  for  transportation, 
by  stealing  up  behind  them  and  throwing  fresh 
hides  over  them.  But  the  Indians  are  passing 
away  here  as  everywhere,  and  their  red  camps 
on  the  mountains  are  fewer  every  year. 

There  are  panthers,  foxes,  badgers,  porcu 
pines,  and  coyotes  in  the  Park,  but  not  in  large 
numbers.  I  have  seen  coyotes  well  back  in  the 
range  at  the  head  of  the  Tuolumne  Meadows 
as  early  as  June  1st,  before  the  snow  was  gone, 
feeding  on  marmots;  but  they  are  far  more 
numerous  on  the  inhabited  lowlands  around 
ranches,  where  they  enjoy  life  on  chickens, 
turkeys,  quail  eggs,  ground  squirrels,  hares, 
etc.,  and  all  kinds  of  fruit.  Few  wild  sheep,  I 
fear,  are  left  hereabouts;  for,  though  safe  on 
the  high  peaks,  they  are  driven  down  the  east 
ern  slope  of  the  mountains  when  the  deer  are 
driven  down  the  western,  to  ridges  and  out 
lying  spurs  where  the  snow  does  not  fall  to  a 
211 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

great  depth,  and  there  they  are  within  reach 
of  the  cattlemen's  rifles. 

The  two  squirrels  of  the  Park,  the  Douglas 
and  the  California  gray,  keep  all  the  woods 
lively.  The  former  is  far  more  abundant  and 
more  widely  distributed,  being  found  all  the 
way  up  from  the  foothills  to  the  dwarf  pines 
on  the 'Summit  peaks.  He  is  the  most  influ 
ential  of  the  Sierra  animals,  though  small,  and 
the  brightest  of  all  the  squirrels  I  know,  — 
a  squirrel  of  squirrels,  quick  mountain  vigor 
and  valor  condensed,  purely  wild,  and  as  free 
from  disease  as  a  sunbeam.  One  cannot  think 
of  such  an  animal  ever  being  weary  or  sick. 
He  claims  all  the  woods,  and  is  inclined  to  drive 
away  even  men  as  intruders.  How  he  scolds, 
and  what  faces  he  makes!  If  not  so  comically 
small  he  would  be  a  dreadful  fellow.  The 
gray,  Sciurusfossor,  is  the  handsomest,  I  think, 
of  all  the  large  American  squirrels.  He  is 
something  like  the  Eastern  gray,  but  is  brighter 
and  clearer  in  color,  and  more  lithe  and  slender. 
He  dwells  in  the  oak  and  pine  woods  up  to  a 
height  of  about  five  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea,  is  rather  common  in  Yosemite  Valley, 
Hetch-Hetchy,  Kings  River  Canon,  and  in 
deed  in  all  the  main  canons  and  Yosemites, 
but  does  not  like  the  high  fir-covered  ridges. 
Compared  with  the  Douglas,  the  gray  is  more 
212 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

than  twice  as  large;  nevertheless,  he  manages 
to  make  his  way  through  the  trees  with  less 
stir  than  his  small,  peppery  neighbor,  and  is 
much  less  influential  in  every  way.  In  the 
spring,  before  the  pine-nuts  and  hazel-nuts  are 
ripe,  he  examines  last  year's  cones  for  the  few 
seeds  that  may  be  left  in  them  between  the 
half-open  scales,  and  gleans  fallen  nuts  and 
seeds  on  the  ground  among  the  leaves,  after 
making  sure  that  no  enemy  is  nigh.  His  fine 
tail  floats,  now  behind,  now  above  him,  level 
or  gracefully  curled,  light  and  radiant  as  dry 
thistledown.  His  body  seems  hardly  more 
substantial  than  his  tail.  The  Douglas  is  a 
firm,  emphatic  bolt  of  life,  fiery,  pungent,  full 
of  brag  and  show  and  fight,  and  his  movements 
have  none  of  the  elegant  deliberation  of  the 
gray.  They  are  so  quick  and  keen  they  almost 
sting  the  onlooker,  and  the  acrobatic  harlequin 
gyrating  show  he  makes  of  himself  turns  one 
giddy  to  see.  The  gray  is  shy  and  oftentimes 
stealthy,  as  if  half  expecting  to  find  an  enemy 
in  every  tree  and  bush  and  behind  every  log; 
he  seems  to  wish  to  be  let  alone,  and  manifests 
no  desire  to  be  seen,  or  admired,  or  feared.  He 
is  hunted  by  the  Indians,  and  this  of  itself  is 
cause  enough  for  caution.  The  Douglas  is  less 
attractive  for  game,  and  probably  increasing 
in  numbers  in  spite  of  every  enemy.  He  goes 

213 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

his  ways  bold  as  a  lion,  up  and  down  and 
across,  round  and  round,  the  happiest,  merri 
est  of  all  the  hairy  tribe,  and  at  the  same  time 
tremendously  eaft&t-  and  solemn,  sunshine 
incarnate,  making  every  tree  tingle  with  his 
electric  toes.  If  you  prick  him,  you  cannot 
think  he  will  bleed.  He  seems  above  the  chance 
and  change  that  beset  common  mortals,  though 
in  busily  gathering  burs  and  nuts  he  shows 
that  he  has  to  work  for  a  living,  like  the  rest 
of  us.  I  never  found  a  dead  Douglas.  He  gets 
into  the  world  and  out  of  it  without  being  no 
ticed;  only  in  prime  is  he  seen,  like  some  little 
plants  that  are  visible  only  when  in  bloom. 

The  little  striped  Tamios  quadrivittatus  is 
one  of  the  most  amiable  and  delightful  of  all  the 
mountain  tree-climbers.  A  brighter,  cheerier 
chipmunk  does  not  exist.  He  is  smarter,  more 
arboreal  and  squirrel-like,  than  the  familiar 
Eastern  species,  and  is  distributed  as  widely 
on  the  Sierra  as  the  Douglas.  Every  forest, 
however  dense  or  open,  every  hilltop  and 
canon,  however  brushy  or  bare,  is  cheered  and 
enlivened  by  this  happy  little  animal.  You 
are  likely  to  notice  him  first  on  the  lower  edge 
of  the  coniferous  belt,  where  the  Sabine  and 
yellow  pines  meet;  and  thence  upward,  go 
where  you  may,  you  will  find  him  every  day, 
even  in  winter,  unless  the  weather  is  stormy. 

214 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

He  is  an  exceedingly  interesting  little  fellow, 
full  of  odd,  quaint  ways,  confiding,  thinking 
no  evil;  and  without  beinea  squirrel  —  a  true 
shadow-tail  —  he  lives  tne  life  of  a  squirrel, 
and  has  almost  all  squirrelish  accomplishments 
without  aggressive  quarrelsomeness. 

I  never  weary  of  watching  him  as  he  frisks 
about  the  bushes,  gathering  seeds  and  berries; 
poising  on  slender  twigs  of  wild  cherry,  shad, 
chinquapin,  buckthorn,  bramble;  skimming 
along  prostrate  trunks  or  over  the  grassy, 
needle-strewn  forest  floor;  darting  from  boul 
der  to  boulder  on  glacial  pavements  and  the 
tops  of  the  great  domes.  When  the  seeds  of 
the  conifers  are  ripe"  he  climbs  the  trees  and 
cuts  off  the  cones  for  a  winter  store,  working 
diligently,  though  not  with  the  tremendous 
lightning  energy  of  the  Douglas,  who  fre 
quently  drives  him  out  of  the  best  trees. 
Then  he  lies  in  wait,  and  picks  up  a  share  of 
the  burs  cut  off  by  his  domineering  cousin,  and 
stores  them  beneath  logs  and  in  hollows.  Few 
of  the  Sierra  animals  are  so  well  liked  as  this 
little  airy,  fluffy  half  squirrel,  half  spermophile. 
So  gentle,  confiding,  and  busily  cheery  and 
happy,  he  takes  one's  heart  and  keeps  his 
place  among  the  best-loved  of  the  mountain 
darlings.  A  diligent  collector  of  seeds,  nuts, 
and  berries,  of  course  he  is  well  fed,  though 

215 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

never  in  the  least  dumpy  with  fat.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  looks  like  a  mere  fluff  of  fur,  weighing 
but  little  more  than  a  field  mouse,  and  of  his 
frisky,  birdlike  liveliness  without  haste  there 
is  no  end.  Douglas  can  bark  with  his  mouth 
closed,  but  little  quad  always  opens  his  when 
he  talks  or  sings.  He  has  a  considerable  variety 
of  notes  which  correspond  with  his  movements, 
some  of  them  sweet  and  liquid,  like  water 
dripping  into  a  pool  with  tinkling  sound.  His 
eyes  are  black  and  animated,  shining  like  dew. 
He  seems  dearly  to  like  teasing  a  dog,  ventur 
ing  within  a  few  feet  of  it,  then  frisking  away 
with  a  lively  chipping  and  low  squirrelish 
churring;  beating  time  to  his  music,  such  as  it 
is,  with  his  tail,  which  at  each  chip  and  churr 
describes  a  half  circle.  Not  even  Douglas  is 
surer  footed  or  takes  greater  risks.  I  have  seen 
him  running  about  on  sheer  Yosemite  cliffs, 
holding  on  with  as  little  effort  as  a  fly  and  as 
little  thought  of  danger,  in  places  where,  if  he 
had  made  the  least  slip,  he  would  have  fallen 
thousands  of  feet.  How  fine  it  would  be  could 
mountaineers  move  about  on  precipices  with 
the  same  sure  grip! 

Before  the  pine-nuts  are  ripe,  grass  seeds  and 
those  of  the  many  species  of  ceanothus,  with 
strawberries,  raspberries,  and  the  soft  red 
thimbleberries  of  Rubus  nutkanus,  form  the 

216 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

bulk  of  his  food,  and  a  neater  eater  is  not  to  be 
found  in  the  mountains.  Bees  powdered  with 
pollen,  poking  their  blunt  noses  into  the  bells 
of  flowers,  are  comparatively  clumsy  and  boor 
ish.  Frisking  along  some  fallen  pine  or  fir, 
when  the  grass  seeds  are  ripe,  he  looks  about 
him,  considering  which  of  the  tufts  he  sees  is 
likely  to  have  the  best,  runs  out  to  it,,  selects 
what  he  thinks  is  sure  to  be  a  good  head,  cuts 
it  off,  carries  it  to  the  top  of  the  log,  sits  up 
right  and  nibbles  out  the  grain  without  getting 
awns  in  his  mouth,  turning  the  head  round, 
holding  it  and  fingering  it  as  if  playing  on  a 
flute ;  then  skips  for  another  and  another,  bring 
ing  them  to  the  same  dining-log. 

The  woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax)  dwells 
on  high  bleak  ridges  and  boulder  piles;  and 
a  very  different  sort  of  mountaineer  is  he, — 
bulky,  fat,  aldermanic,  and  fairly  bloated  at 
times  by  hearty  indulgence  in  the  lush  pas 
tures  of  his  airy  home.  And  yet  he  is  by  no 
means  a  dull  animal.  In  the  midst  of  what  we 
regard  as  storm-beaten  desolation,  high  in  the 
frosty  air,  beside  the  glaciers  he  pipes  and 
whistles  right  cheerily  and  lives  to  a  good  old 
age.  If  you  are  as  early  a  riser  as  he  is,  you 
may  oftentimes  see  him  come  blinking  out  of 
his  burrow  to  meet  the  first  beams  of  the 
morning  and  take  a  sunbath  on  some  favorite 

217 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

flat-topped  boulder.  Afterward,  well  warmed, 
he  goes  to  breakfast  in  one  of  his  garden  hol 
lows,  eats  heartily  like  a  cow  in  clover  until 
comfortably  swollen,  then  goes  a,-visiting,  and 
plays  and  loves  and  fights. 

In  the  spring  of  1875,  when  I  was  exploring 
the  peaks  and  glaciers  about  the  head  of  the 
middle  fork  of  the  San  Joaquin,  I  had  crossed 
the  range  from  the  head  of  Owen  River,  and 
one  morning,  passing  around  a  frozen  lake 
where  the  snow  was  perhaps  ten  feet  deep,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  the  fresh  track  of  a  wood- 
chuck  plainly  marked,  the  sun  having  softened 
the  surface.  What  could  the  animal  be  think 
ing  of,  coming  out  so  early  while  all  the  ground 
was  snow-buried?  The  steady  trend  of  his 
track  showed  he  had  a  definite  aim,  and  for 
tunately  it  was  toward  a  mountain  thirteen 
thousand  feet  high  that  I  meant  to  climb.  So 
I  followed  to  see  if  I  could  find  out  what  he 

» 

was  up  to.  From  the  base  of  the  mountain 
the  track  pointed  straight  up,  and  I  knew  by 
the  melting  snow  that  I  was  not  far  behind 
him.  I  lost  the  track  on  a  crumbling  ridge, 
partly  projecting  through  the  snow,  but  soon 
discovered  it  again.  Well  toward  the  summit 
of  the  mountain,  in  an  open  spot  on  the  south 
side,  nearly  inclosed  by  disintegrating  pin 
nacles  among  which  the  sun  heat  reverberated, 

218 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

making  an  isolated  patch  of  warm  climate, 
I  found  a  nice  garden,  full  of  rock  cress,  phlox, 
silene,  draba,  etc.,  and  a  few  grasses;  and  in 
this  garden  I  overtook  the  wanderer,  enjoying 
a  fine  fresh  meal,  perhaps  the  first  of  the  sea 
son.  How  did  he  know  the  way  to  this  one 
garden  spot,  so  high  and  far  off,  and  what  told 
him  that  it  was  in  bloom  while  yet  the  snow 
was  ten  feet  deep  over  his  den?  For  this  it 
would  seem  he  would  need  more  botanical, 
topographical,  and  climatological  knowledge 
than  most  mountaineers  are  possessed  of. 

The  shy,  curious  mountain  beaver,  Haplo- 
don,  lives  on  the  heights,  not  far  from  the  wood- 
chuck.  He  digs  canals  and  controls  the  flow 
of  small  streams  under  the  sod.  And  it  is  star 
tling  when  one  is  camped  on  the  edge  of  a 
sloping  meadow  near  the  homes  of  these  indus 
trious  mountaineers,  to  be  awakened  in  the  still 
night  by  the  sound  of  water  rushing  and  gur 
gling  under  one's  head  in  a  newly  formed  canal. 
Pouched  gophers  also  have  a  way  of  awakening 
nervous  campers  that  is  quite  as  exciting  as 
the  haplodon's  plan ;  that  is,  by  a  series  of  firm 
upward  pushes  when  they  are  driving  tunnels 
and  shoving  up  the  dirt..  One  naturally  cries 
out,  "  Who's  there?"  and  then  discovering  the 
cause,  "All  right.  Go  on.  Good-night,"  and 
goes  to  sleep  again. 

219 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

The  haymaking  pika,  bob-tailed  spermo- 
phile,  and  wood-rat  are  also  among  the  most 
interesting  of  the  Sierra  animals.  The  last, 
Neotoma,  is  scarcely  at  all  like  the  common  rat, 
is  nearly  twice  as  large,  has  a  delicate,  soft, 
brownish  fur,  white  on  the  belly,  large  ears 
thin  and  translucent,  eyes  full  and  liquid  and 
mild  in  expression,  most  blunt  and  squirrelish, 
slender  claws  sharp  as  needles,  and  as  his  limbs 
are  strong  he  can  climb  about  as  well  as  a 
squirrel;  while  no  rat  or  squirrel  has  so  inno 
cent  a  look,  is  so  easily  approached,  or  in  gen 
eral  expresses  so  much  confidence  in  one's  good 
intentions.  He  seems  too  fine  for  the  thorny 
thickets  he  inhabits,  and  his  big,  rough  hut  is 
as  unlike  himself  as  possible.  No  other  animal 
in  these  mountains  makes  nests  so  large  and 
striking  in  appearance  as  his.  They  are  built 
of  all  kinds  of  sticks  (broken  branches,  and  old 
rotten  moss-grown  chunks  and  green  twigs, 
smooth  or  thorny,  cut  from  the  nearest  bushes), 
mixed  with  miscellaneous  rubbish  and  curious 
odds  and  ends,  —  bits  of  cloddy  earth,  stones, 
bones,  bits  of  deer-horn,  etc. :  the  whole  simply 
piled  in  conical  masses  on  the  ground  in  chap 
arral  thickets.  Some  of  these  cabins  are  five  or 
six  feet  high,  and  occasionally  a  dozen  or  more 
are  grouped  together;  less,  perhaps,  for  society's 
sake  than  for  advantages  of  food  and  shelter. 
220 


t 
THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

Coming  through  deep,  stiff  chaparral  in  the 
heart  of  the  wilderness,  heated  and  weary  in 
forcing  a  way,  the  solitary  explorer,  happening 
into  one  of  these  curious  neotoma  villages,  is 
startled  at  the  strange  sight,  and  may  imagine 
he  is  in  an  Indian  village,  and  feel  anxious  as  to 
the  reception  he  will  get  in  a  place  so  wild.  At 
first,  perhaps,  not  a  single  inhabitant  will  be 
seen,  or  at  most  only  two  or  three  seated  on  the 
tops  of  their  huts  as  at  the  doors,  observing 
the  stranger  with  the  mildest  of  mild  eyes.  The 
nest  in  the  center  of  the  cabin  is  made  of  grass 
and  films,  of  bark  chewed  to  tow,  and  lined  with 
feathers  and  the  down  of  various  seeds.  The 
thick,  rough  walls  seem  to  be  built  for  defense 
against  enemies  —  fox,  coyote,  etc.  —  as  well 
as  for  shelter,  and  the  delicate  creatures  in 
their  big,  rude  homes,  suggest  tender  flowers, 
like  those  of  Salvia  carduacea,  defended  by 
thorny  involucres. 

Sometimes  the  home  is  built  in  the  forks  of 
an  oak,  twenty  or  thirty  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  even  in  garrets.  Among  housekeepers 
who  have  these  bushmen  as  neighbors  or  guests 
they  are  regarded  as  thieves,  because  they 
carry  away  and  pile  together  everything  trans 
portable  (knives,  forks,  tin  cups,  spoons,  spec 
tacles,  combs,  nails,  kindling-wood,  etc.,  as 
well  as  eatables  of  all  sorts),  to  strengthen  their 

221 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fortifications  or  to  shine  among  rivals.  Once, 
far  back  in  the  high  Sierra,  they  stole  my 
snow-goggles,  the  lid  of  my  teapot,  and  my 
aneroid  barometer;  and  one  stormy  night, 
when  encamped  under  a  prostrate  cedar,  I  was 
awakened  by  a  gritting  sound  on  the  granite, 
and  by  the  light  of  my  fire  I  discovered  a  hand 
some  neotoma  beside  me,  dragging  away  my 
ice-hatchet,  pulling  with  might  and  main  by  a 
buckskin  string  on  the  handle.  I  threw  bits  of 
bark  at  him  and  made  a  noise  to  frighten  him, 
but  he  stood  scolding  and  chattering  back  at 
me,  his  fine  eyes  shining  with  an  ah-  of  injured 
innocence. 

A  great  variety  of  lizards  enliven  the  warm 
portions  of  the  Park.  Some  of  them  are  more 
than  a  foot  in  length,  others  but  little  larger 
than  grasshoppers.  A  few  are  snaky  and  re 
pulsive  at  first  sight,  but  most  of  the  species  are 
handsome  and  attractive,  and  bear  acquaint 
ance  well;  we  like  them  better  the  farther  we 
see  into  their  charming  lives.  Small  fellow 
mortals,  gentle  and  guileless,  they  are  easily 
tamed,  and  have  beautiful  eyes,  expressing  the 
clearest  innocence,  so  that,  in  spite  of  preju 
dices  brought  from  cool,  lizardless  countries, 
one  must  soon  learn  to  like  them.  Even  the 
horned  toad  of  the  plains  and  foothills,  called 
horrid,  is  mild  and  gentle,  with  charming  eyes, 

222 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

and  so  are  the  snakelike  species  found  in  the 
underbrush  of  the  lower  forests.  These  glide 
in  curves  with  all  the  ease  and  grace  of  snakes, 
while  their  small,  undeveloped  limbs  drag  for 
the  most  part  as  useless  appendages.  One 
specimen  that  I  measured  was  fourteen  inches 
long,  and  as  far  as  I  saw  it  made  no  use  what 
ever  of  its  diminutive  limbs. 

Most  of  them  glint  and  dart  on  the  sunny 
rocks  and  across  open  spaces  from  bush  to 
bush,  swift  as  dragonflies  and  hummingbirds, 
and  about  as  brilliantly  colored.  They  never 
make  a  long-sustained  run,  whatever  their 
object,  but  dart  direct  as  arrows  for  a  distance 
of  ten  or  twenty  feet,  then  suddenly  stop,  and 
as  suddenly  start  again.  These  stops  are 
necessary  as  rests,  for  they  are  short-winded, 
and  when  pursued  steadily  are  soon  run  out 
of  breath,  pant  pitifully,  and  may  easily  be 
caught  where  no  retreat  in  bush  or  rock  is 
quickly  available. 

If  you  stay  with  them  a  week  or  two  and 
behave  well,  these  gentle  saurians,  descendants 
of  an  ancient  race  of  giants,  will  soon  know  and 
trust  you,  come  to  your  feet,  play,  and  watch 
your  every  motion  with  cunning  curiosity. 
You  will  surely  learn  to  like  them,  not  only 
the  bright  ones,  gorgeous  as  the  rainbow,  but 
the  little  ones,  gray  as  lichened  granite,  and 

223 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

scarcely  bigger  thanN^rasshoppers;  and  they 
will  teach  you  that  sclB(f  may  cover  as  fine 
a  nature  as  hair  or  feathers  or  anything  tai 
lored. 

There  are  many  snakes  in  the  canons  and 
lower  forests,  but  they  are  mostly  handsome 
and  harmless.  Of  all  the  tourists  and  travelers 
who  have  visited  Yosemite  and  the  adjacent 
mountains,  not  one  has  been  bitten  by  a  snake 
of  any  sort,  while  thousands  have  been  charmed 
by  them.  Some  of  them  vie  with  the  lizards 
in  beauty  of  color  and  dress  patterns.  Only 
the  rattlesnake  is  venomous,  and  he  carefully 
keeps  his  venom  to  himself  as  far  as  man  is 
concerned,  unless  his  life  is  threatened. 

Before  I  learned  to  respect  rattlesnakes  I 
killed  two,  the  first  on  the  San  Joaquin  plain. 
He  was  coiled  comfortably  around  a  tuft  of 
bunch-grass,  and  I  discovered  him  when  he  was 
between  my  feet  as  I  was  stepping  over  him. 
He  held  his  head  down  and  did  not  attempt  to 
strike,  although  in  danger  of  being  trampled. 
At  that  time,  thirty  years  ago,  I  imagined  that 
rattlesnakes  should  be  killed  wherever  found. 
I  had  no  weapon  of  any  sort,  and  on  the  smooth 
plain  there  was  not  a  stick  or  a  stone  within 
miles;  so  I  crushed  him  by  jumping  on  him, 
as  the  deer  are  said  to  do.  Looking  me  in  the 
face  he  saw  I  meant  mischief,  and  quickly  cast 

224 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

himself  into  a  coil,  ready  to  strike  in  defense. 
I  knew  he  could  not  strike  when  traveling, 
therefore  I  threw  handfuls  of  dirt  and  grass 
sods  at  him,  to  tease  him  out  of  coil.  He  held 
his  ground  a  few  minutes,  threatening  and 
striking,  and  then  started  off  to  get  rid  of  me. 
I  ran  forward  and  jumped  on  him;  but  he  drew 
back  his  head  so  quickly  my  heel  missed,  and 
he  also  missed  his  stroke  at  me.  Persecuted, 
tormented,  again  and  again  he  tried  to  get 
away,  bravely  striking  out  to  protect  himself; 
but  at  last  my  heel  came  squarely  down,  sorely 
wounding  him,  and  a  few  more  brutal  stamp 
ings  crushed  him.  I  felt  degraded  by  the  killing 
business,  farther  from  heaven,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  try  to  be  at  least  as  fair  and  chari 
table  as  the  snakes  themselves,  and  to  kill  no 
more  save  in  self-defense. 

The  second  killing  might  also,  I  think,  have 
been  avoided,  and  I  have  always  felt  somewhat 
sore  and  guilty  about  it.  'I  had  built  a  little 
cabin  in  Yosemite,  and  for  convenience  in 
getting  water,  and  for  the  sake  of  music  and 
society,  I  led  a  small  stream  from  Yosemite 
Creek  into  it.  Running  along  the  side  of  the 
wall  it  was  not  in  the  way,  and  it  had  just  fall 
enough  to  ripple  and  sing  in  low,  sweet  tones, 
making  delightful  company,  especially  at  night 
when  I  was  lying  awake.  Then  a  few  frogs 

225 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

came  in  and  made  merry  with  the  stream,  — 
and  one  snake,  I  suppose  to  catch  the  frogs. 

Returning  from  my  long  walks,  I  usually 
brought  home  a  large  handful  of  plants,  partly 
for  study,  partly  for  ornament,  and  set  them  in 
a  corner  of  the  cabin,  with  their  stems  in  the 
stream  to  keep  them  fresh.  One  day,  when  I 
picked  up  a  handful  that  had  begun  to  fade,  I 
uncovered  a  large  coiled  rattler  that  had  been 
hiding  behind  the  flowers.  Thus  suddenly 
brought  to  light  face  to  face  with  the  rightful 
owner  of  the  place,  the  poor  reptile  was  desper 
ately  embarrassed,  evidently  realizing  that  he 
had  no  right  in  the  cabin.  It  was  not  only  fear 
that  he  showed,  but  a  good  deal  of  downright 
bashfulness  and  embarrassment,  like  that  of  a 
more  than  half  honest  person  caught  under  sus 
picious  circumstances  behind  a  door.  Instead 
of  striking  or  threatening  to  strike,  though 
coiled  and  ready,  he  slowly  drew  his  head 
down  as  far  as  he  could,  with  awkward,  con 
fused  kinks  in  his  neck  and  a  shamefaced  ex 
pression,  as  if  wishing  the  ground  would  open 
and  hide  him.  I  have  looked  into  the  eyes  of  so 
many  wild  animals  that  I  feel  sure  I  did  not 
mistake  the  feelings  of  this  unfortunate  snake. 
I  did  not  want  to  kill  him,  but  I  had  many  visit 
ors,  some  of  them  children,  and  I  oftentimes 
came  in  late  at  night;  so  I  judged  he  must  die. 

226 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

Since  then  I  have  seen  perhaps  a  hundred  or 
more  in  these  mountains,  but  I  have  never 
intentionally  disturbed  them,  nor  have  they 
disturbed  me  to  any  great  extent,  even  by  ac 
cident,  though  in  danger  of  being  stepped  on. 
Once,  while  I  was  on  my  knees  kindling  a  fire, 
one  glided  under  the  arch  made  by  my  arm. 
He  was  only  going  away  from  the  ground  I  had 
selected  for  a  camp,  and  there  was  not  the 
slightest  danger,  because  I  kept  still  and  al 
lowed  him  to  go  in  peace.  The  only  time  I  felt 
myself  in  serious  danger  was  when  I  was  coming 
out  of  the  Tuolumne  Canon  by  a  steep  side 
canon  toward  the  head  of  Yosemite  Creek. 
On  an  earthquake  talus,  a  boulder  in  my  way 
presented  a  front  so  high  that  I  could  just 
reach  the  upper  edge  of  it  while  standing  on  the 
next  below  it.  Drawing  myself  up,  as  soon  as 
my  head  was  above  the  flat  top  of  it  I  caught 
sight  of  a  coiled  rattler.  My  hands  had  alarmed 
him,  and  he  was  ready  for  me;  but  even  with 
this  provocation,  and  when  my  head  came  in 
sight  within  a  foot  of  him,  he  did  not  strike. 
The  last  tune  I  sauntered  through  the  big 
canon  I  saw  about  two  a  day.  One  was  not 
coiled,  but  neatly  folded  in  a  narrow  space 
between  two  cobblestones  on  the  side  of  the 
river,  his  head  below  the  level  of  them,  ready 
to  shoot  up  like  a  jack-in-the-box  for  frogs 

227 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

or  birds.  My  foot  spanned  the  space  above 
within  an  inch  or  two  of  his  head,  but  he  only 
held  it  lower.  In  making  my  way  through  a 
particularly  tedious  tangle  of  buckthorn,  I 
parted  the  branches  on  the  side  of  an  open 
spot  and  threw  my  bundle  of  bread  into  it; 
and  when,  with  my  arms  free,  I  was  pushing 
through  after  it,  I  saw  a  small  rattlesnake 
dragging  his  tail  from  beneath  my  bundle. 
When  he  caught  sight  of  me  he  eyed  me  an 
grily,  and  with  an  air  of  righteous  indignation 
seemed  to  be  asking  why  I  had  thrown  that 
stuff  on  him.  He  was  so  small  that  I  was  in 
clined  to  slight  him,  but  he  struck  out  so  an 
grily  that  I  drew  back,  and  approached  the 
opening  from  the  other  side.  But  he  had  been 
listening,  and  when  I  looked  through  the 
brush  I  found  him  confronting  me,  still  with  a 
come-in-if-you-dare  expression.  In  vain  I  tried 
to  explain  that  I  only  wanted  my  bread;  he 
stoutly  held  the  ground  in  front  of  it ;  so  I  went 
back  a  dozen  rods  and  kept  still  for  half  an 
hour,  and  when  I  returned  he  had  gone. 

One  evening,  near  sundown,  in  a  very  rough, 
boulder-choked  portion  of  the  canon,  I  searched 
long  for  a  level  spot  for  a  bed,  and  at  last  was 
glad  to  find  a  patch  of  flood-sand  on  the  river- 
bank,  and  a  lot  of  driftwood  close  by  for  a 
camp-fire.  But  when  I  threw  down  my  bundle, 

228 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE   YOSEMITE 

I  found  two  snakes  in  possession  of  the  ground. 
I  might  have  passed  the  night  even  in  this 
snake  den  without  danger,  for  I  never  knew  a 
single  instance  of  their  coming  into  camp  in 
the  night ;  but  fearing  that,  in  so  small  a  space, 
some  late  comers,  not  aware  of  my  presence, 
might  get  stepped  on  when  I  was  replenishing 
the  fire,  to  avoid  possible  crowding  I  encamped 
on  one  of  the  earthquake  boulders. 

There  are  two  species  of  Crotalus  in  the  Park, 
and  when  I  was  exploring  the  basin  of  Yosemite 
Creek  I  thought  I  had  discovered  a  new  one.  I 
saw  a  snake  with  curious  divided  appendages 
on  its  head.  Going  nearer,  I  found  that  the 
strange  headgear  was  only  the  feet  of  a  frog. 
Cutting  a  switch,  I  struck  the  snake  lightly 
until  he  disgorged  the  poor  frog,  or  rather  al 
lowed  it  to  back  out.  On  its  return  to  the  light 
from  one  of  the  very  darkest  of  death  valleys, 
it  blinked  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  dazed  look, 
then  plunged  into  a  stream,  apparently  happy 
and  well. 

Frogs  abound  in  all  the  bogs,  marshes,  pools, 
and  lakes,  however  cold  and  high  and  isolated. . 
How  did  they  manage  to  get  up  these  high 
mountains?  Surely  not  by  jumping.  Long  and 
dry  excursions  through  weary  miles  of  boul 
ders  and  brush  would  be  trying  to  frogs.  Most 
likely  their  stringy  spawn  is  carried  on  the  feet 

229 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  ducks,  cranes,  and  other  water-birds.  Any 
how,  they  are  most  thoroughly  distributed, 
and  flourish  famously.  What  a  cheery,  hearty 
set  they  are,  and  how  bravely  their  krink  and 
tronk  concerts  enliven  the  rocky  wilderness! 

None  of  the  high-lying  mountain  lakes  or 
branches  of  the  rivers  above  sheer  falls  had 
fish  of  any  sort  until  stocked  by  the  agency  of 
man.  In  the  high  Sierra,  the  only  river  in 
which  trout  exist  naturally  is  the  middle  fork 
of  Kings  River.  There  are  no  sheer  falls  on 
this  stream;  some  of  the  rapids,  however,  are 
so  swift  and  rough,  even  at  the  lowest  stage  of 
water,  that  it  is  surprising  any  fish  can  climb 
them.  I  found  trout  in  abundance  in  this  fork 
up  to  seventy-five  hundred  feet.  They  also 
run  quite  high  on  the  Kern.  On  the  Merced 
they  get  no  higher  than  Yosemite  Valley,  four 
thousand  feet,  all  the  forks  of  the  river  being 
barred  there  by  sheer  falls,  and  on  the  main 
Tuolumne  they  are  stopped  by  a  fall  below 
Hetch-Hetchy,  still  lower  than  Yosemite. 
Though  these  upper  waters  are  inaccessible  to 
.the  fish,  one  would  suppose  their  eggs  might 
have  been  planted  there  by  some  means.  Na 
ture  has  so  many  ways  of  doing  such  things. 
In  this  case  she  waited  for  the  agency  of  man, 
and  now  many  of  these  hitherto  fishless  lakes 
and  streams  are  full  of  fine  trout,  stocked  by 

230 


THE  ANIMALS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

individual  enterprise,  Walton  clubs,  etc.,  in 
great  part  under  the  auspices  of  the  United 
States  Fish  Commission.  A  few  trout  carried 
into  Hetch-Hetchy  in  a  common  water-bucket 
have  multiplied  wonderfully  fast.  Lake  Ten- 
aya,  at  an  elevation  of  over  eight  thousand 
feet,  was  stocked  eight  years  ago  by  Mr. 
Murphy,  who  carried  a  few  trout  from  Yo- 
semite.  Many  of  the  small  streams  of  the  east 
ern  slope  have  also  been  stocked  with  trout 
transported  over  the  passes  in  tin  cans  on  the 
backs  of  mules.  Soon,  it  would  seem,  all  the 
streams  of  the  range  will  be  enriched  by  these 
lively  fish,  and  will  become  the  means  of  draw 
ing  thousands  of  visitors  into  the  mountains. 
Catching  trout  with  a  bit  of  bent  wire  is  a 
rather  trivial  business,  but  fortunately  people 
fish  better  than  they  know.  In  most  cases  it  is 
the  man  who  is  caught.  Trout-fishing  regarded 
as  bait  for  catching  men,  for  the  saving  of 
both  body  and  soul,  is  important,  and  de 
serves  all  the  expense  and  care  bestowed  on  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AMONG   THE   BIRDS   OF   THE    YOSEMITE 

TRAVELERS  in  the  Sierra  forests  usually  com 
plain  of  the  want  of  life.  "The  trees,"  they 
say,  "are  fine,  but  the  empty  stillness  is  deadly; 
there  are  no  animals  to  be  seen,  no  birds.  We 
have  not  heard  a  song  in  all  the  woods."  And 
no  wonder !  They  go  in  large  parties  with  mules 
and  horses;  they  make  a  great  noise;  they  are 
dressed  in  outlandish,  unnatural  colors;  every 
animal  shuns  them.  Even  the  frightened  pines 
would  run  away  if  they  could.  But  Nature- 
lovers,  devout,  silent,  open-eyed,  looking  and 
listening  with  love,  find  no  lack  of  inhabitants 
in  these  mountain  mansions,  and  they  come  to 
them  gladly.  Not  to  mention  the  large  animals 
or  the  small  insect  people,  every  waterfall  has 
its  ouzel  and  every  tree  its  squirrel  or  tamias  or 
bird :  tiny  nuthatch  threading  the  furrows  of  the 
bark,  cheerily  whispering  to  itself  as  it  deftly 
pries  off  loose  scales  and  examines  the  curled 
edges  of  lichens;  or  Clarke  crow  or  jay  examin 
ing  the  cones;  or  some  singer  —  oriole,  tanager, 
warbler — resting,  feeding,  attending  to  domes 
tic  affairs.  Hawks  and  eagles  sail  overhead, 
grouse  walk  in  happy  flocks  below,  and  song 

232 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

sparrows  sing  in  every  bed  of  chaparral.  There 
is  no  crowding,  to  be  sure.  Unlike  the  low 
Eastern  trees,  those  of  the  Sierra  in  the  main 
forest  belt  average  nearly  two  hundred  feet  in 
height,  and  of  course  many  birds  are  required 
to  make  much  show  in  them,  and  many 
voices  to  fill  them.  Nevertheless,  the  whole 
range,  from  foothills  to  snowy  summits,  is 
shaken  into  song  every  summer;  and  though 
low  and  thin  in  winter,  the  music  never  ceases. 
The  sage  cock  (Centrocercus  urophasianus) 
is  the  largest  of  the  Sierra  game-birds  and  the 
king  of  American  grouse.  It  is  an  admirably 
strong,  hardy,  handsome,  independent  bird, 
able  with  comfort  to  bid  defiance  to  heat,  cold, 
drought,  hunger,  and  all  sorts  of  storms,  living 
on  whatever  seeds  or  insects  chance  to  come  in 
its  way,  or  simply  on  the  leaves  of  sage-brush, 
everywhere  abundant  on  its  desert  range.  In 
winter,  when  the  temperature  is  oftentimes 
below  zero,  and  heavy  snowstorms  are  blowing, 
he  sits  beneath  a  sage  bush  and  allows  himself 
to  be  covered,  poking  his  head  now  and  then 
through  the  snow  to  feed  on  the  leaves  of  his 
shelter.  Not  even  the  Arctic  ptarmigan  is 
hardier  in  braving  frost  and  snow  and  wintry 
darkness.  When  in  full  plumage  he  is  a  beau 
tiful  bird,  with  a  long,  firm,  sharp-pointed  tail, 
which  in  walking  is  slightly  raised  and  swings 

233 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

sidewise  back  and  forth  with  each  step.  The 
male  is  handsomely  marked  with  black  and 
white  on  the  neck,  back,  and  wings,  weighs 
five  or  six  pourids,  and  measures  about  thirty 
inches  in  length.  The  female  is  clad  mostly  in 
plain  brown,  and  is  not  so  large.  They  occa 
sionally  wander  from  the  sage  plains  into  the 
open  nut  pine  and  juniper  woods,  but  never 
enter  the  main  coniferous  forest.  It  is  only  in 
the  broad,  dry,  half-desert  sage  plains  that 
they  are  quite  at  home,  where  the  weather  is 
blazing  hot  in  summer,  cold  in  winter.  If  any 
one  passes  through  a  flock,  all  squat  on  the 
gray  ground  and  hold  their  heads  low,  hoping 
to  escape  observation;  but  when  approached 
within  a  rod  or  so,  they  rise  with  a  magnificent 
burst  of  wing-beats,  looking  about  as  big  as 
turkeys  and  making  a  noise  like  a  whirlwind. 

On  the  28th  of  June,  at  the  head  of  Owen's 
Valley,  I  caught  one  of  the  young  that  was 
then  just  able  to  fly.  It  was  seven  inches  long, 
of  a  uniform  gray  color,  blunt-billed,  and  when 
captured  cried  lustily  in  a  shrill  piping  voice, 
clear  in  tone  as  a  boy's  small  willow  whistle.  I 
have  seen  flocks  of  from  ten  to  thirty  or  forty 
on  the  east  margin  of  the  Park,  where  the 
Mono  Desert  meets  the  gray  foothills  of  the 
Sierra;  but  since  cattle  have  been  pastured 
there  they  are  becoming  rarer  every  year. 

234 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

Another  magnificent  bird,  the  blue  or  dusky 
grouse,  next  in  size  to  the  sage  cock,  is  found 
all  through  the  main  forest  belt,  though  not  in 
great  numbers.  They  like  best  the  heaviest 
silver-fir  woods  near  garden  and  meadow  open 
ings,  where  there  is  but  little  underbrush  to 
cover  the  approach  of  enemies.  When  a  flock 
of  these  brave  birds,  sauntering  and  feeding 
on  the  sunny,  flowery  levels  of  some  hidden 
meadow  or  Yosemite  valley  far  back  in  the  heart 
of  the  mountains,  see  a  man  for  the  first  tune 
in  their  lives,  they  rise  with  hurried  notes  of 
surprise  and  excitement  and  alight  on  the  low 
est  branches  of  the  trees,  wondering  what  the 
wanderer  may  be,  and  showing  great  eager 
ness  to  get  a  good  view  of  the  strange  vertical 
animal.  Knowing  nothing  of  guns,  they  allow 
you  to  approach  within  a  half  dozen  paces, 
then  quietly  hop  a  few  branches  higher  or  fly 
to  the  next  tree  without  a  thought  of  conceal 
ment,  so  that  you  may  observe  them  as  long 
as  you  like,  near  enough  to  see  the  fine  shading 
of  their  plumage,  the  feathers  on  their  toes, 
and  the  innocent  wonderment  in  their  beauti 
ful  wild  eyes.  But  in  the  neighborhood  of  roads 
and  trails  they  soon  become  shy,  and  when 
disturbed  fly  into  the  highest,  leafiest  trees,  and 
suddenly  become  invisible,  so  well  do  they 
know  how  to  hide  and  keep  still  and  make  use 

235 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

of  their  protective  coloring.  Nor  can  they  be 
easily  dislodged  ere  they  are  ready  to  go.  In 
vain  the  hunter  goes  round  and  round  some 
tall  pine  or  fir  into  which  he  has  perhaps  seen 
a  dozen  enter,  gazing  up  through  the  branches, 
straining  his  eyes  while  his  gun  is  held  ready; 
not  a  feather  can  he  see  unless  his  eyes  have 
been  sharpened  by  long  experience  and  knowl 
edge  of  the  blue  grouse's  habits.  Then,  per 
haps,  when  he  is  thinking  that  the  tree  must 
be  hollow  and  that  the  birds  are  all  inside,  they 
burst  forth  with  a  startling  whir  of  wing-beats, 
and  after  gaining  full  speed  go  skating  swiftly 
away  through  the  forest  arches  in  a  long,  si 
lent,  wavering  slide,  with  wings  held  steady. 

During  the  summer  they  are  most  of  the 
time  on  the  ground,  feeding  on  insects,  seeds, 
berries,  etc.,  around  the  margins  of  open  spots 
and  rocky  moraines,  playing  and  sauntering, 
taking  sun  baths  and  sand  baths,  and  drinking 
at  little  pools  and  rills  during  the  heat  of  the 
day.  In  winter  they  live  mostly  in  the  trees, 
depending  on  buds  for  food,  sheltering  be 
neath  dense  overlapping  branches  at  night 
and  during  storms  on  the  lee-side  of  the  trunk, 
sunning  themselves  on  the  southside  limbs  in 
fine  weather,  and  sometimes  diving  into  the 
mealy  snow  to  flutter  and  wallow,  apparently 
for  exercise  and  fun. 

236 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

I  have  seen  young  broods  running  beneath 
the  firs  in  June  at  a  height  of  eight  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea.  On  the  approach  of  danger, 
the  mother  with  a  peculiar  cry  warns  the  help 
less  midgets  to  scatter  and  hide  beneath  leaves 
and  twigs,  and  even  in  plain  open  places  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  discover  them.  In  the 
mean  tune  the  mother  feigns  lameness,  throws 
herself  at  your  feet,  kicks  and  gasps  and  flut 
ters,  to  draw  your  attention  from  the  chicks. 
The  young  are  generally  able  to  fly  about  the 
middle  of  July;  but  even  after  they  can  fly  well 
they  are  usually  advised  to  run  and  hide  and 
lie  still,  no  matter  how  closely  approached, 
while  the  mother  goes  on  with  her  loving,  lying 
acting,  apparently  as  desperately  concerned 
for  their  safety  as  when  they  were  featherless 
infants.  Sometimes,  however,  after  carefully 
studying  the  circumstances,  she  tells  them  to 
take  wing;  and  up  and  away  in  a  blurry  birr 
and  whir  they  scatter  to  all  points  of  the  com 
pass,  as  if  blown  up  with  gunpowder,  dropping 
cunningly  out  of  sight  three  or  four  hundred 
yards  off,  and  keeping  quiet  until  called,  after 
the  danger  is  supposed  to  be  past.  If  you  walk 
on  a  little  way  without  manifesting  any  incli 
nation  to  hunt  them,  you  may  sit  down  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree  near  enough  to  see  and  hear  the 
happy  reunion.  One  touch  of  nature  makes 

237 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  whole  world  kin;  and  it  is  truly  wonderful 
how  love-telling  the  small  voices  of  these  birds 
are,  and  how  far  they  reach  through  the  woods 
into  one  another's  hearts  and  into  ours.  The 
tones  are  so  perfectly  human  and  so  full  of 
anxious  affection,  few  mountaineers  can  fail 
to  be  touched  by  them. 

They  are  cared  for  until  full  grown.  On  the 
20th  of  August,  as  I  was  passing  along  the 
margin  of  a  garden  spot  on  the  head-waters  of 
the  San  Joaquin,  a  grouse  rose  from  the  ruins 
of  an  old  juniper  that  had  been  uprooted  and 
brought  down  by  an  avalanche  from  a  cliff 
overhead.  She  threw  herself  at  my  feet, 
limped  and  fluttered  and  gasped,  showing,  as 
I  thought,  that  she  had  a  nest  and  was  raising 
a  second  brood.  Looking  for  the  eggs,  I  was 
surprised  to  see  a  strong-winged  flock  nearly 
as  large  as  the  mother  fly  up  around  me. 

Instead  of  seeking  a  warmer  climate  when 
the  winter  storms  set  in,  these  hardy  birds 
stay  all  the  year  in  the  high  Sierra  forests,  and 
I  have  never  known  them  to  suffer  in  any  sort 
of  weather.  Able  to  live  on  the  buds  of  pine, 
spruce,  and  fir,  they  are  forever  independent 
in  the  matter  of  food  supply,  which  gives  so 
many  of  us  trouble,  dragging  us  here  and  there 
away  from  our  best  work.  How  gladly  I  would 
live  on  pine  buds,  however  pitchy,  for  the  sake 

238 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

of  this  grand  independence!  With  all  his  su 
perior  resources,  man  makes  more  distracting 
difficulty  concerning  food  than  any  other  of 
the  family. 

The  mountain  quail,  or  plumed  partridge 
(Oreortyx  pictus  plumiferus)  is  common  in  all 
the  upper  portions  of  the  Park,  though  no 
where  in  numbers.  He  ranges  considerably 
higher  than  the  grouse  in  summer,  but  is  un 
able  to  endure  the  heavy  storms  of  winter. 
When  his  food  is  buried,  he  descends  the  range 
to  the  brushy  foothills,  at  a  height  of  from  two 
thousand  to  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea; 
but  like  every  true  mountaineer,  he  is  quick 
to  follow  the  spring  back  into  the  highest 
mountains.  I  think  he  is  the  very  handsomest 
and  most  interesting  of  all  the  American  par 
tridges,  larger  and  handsomer  than  the  famous 
Bob  White,  or  even  the  fine  California  valley 
quail,  or  the  Massena  partridge  of  Arizona 
and  Mexico.  That  he  is  not  so  regarded,  is  be 
cause  as  a  lonely  mountaineer  he  is  not  half 
known. 

His  plumage  is  delicately  shaded,  brown 
above,  white  and  rich  chestnut  below  and  on 
the  sides,  with  many  dainty  markings  of  black 
and  white  and  gray  here  and  there,  while  his 
beautiful  head  plume,  three  or  four  inches 
long,  nearly  straight,  composed  of  two  feathers 
239 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

closely  folded  so  as  to  appear  as  one,  is  worn 
jauntily  slanted  backward  like  a  single  feather 
in  a  boy's  cap,  giving  him  a  very  marked  ap 
pearance.  They  wander  over  the  lonely  moun 
tains  in  family  flocks  of  from  six  to  fifteen,  be 
neath  ceanothus,  manzanita,  and  wild  cherry 
thickets,  and  over  dry  sandy  flats,  glacier 
meadows,  rocky  ridges,  and  beds  of  Bryanthus 
around  glacier  lakes,  especially  in  autumn, 
when  the  berries  of  the  upper  gardens  are  ripe, 
uttering  low  clucking  notes  to  enable  them  to 
keep  together.  When  they  are  so  suddenly 
disturbed  that  they  are  afraid  they  cannot 
escape  the  danger  by  running  into  thickets, 
they  rise  with  a  fine  hearty  whir  and  scatter 
in  the  brush  over  an  area  of  half  a  square  mile 
or  so,  a  few  of  them  diving  into  leafy  trees.  But 
as  soon  as  the  danger  is  past,  the  parents  with 
a  clear  piping  note  call  them  together  again. 
By  the  end  of  July  the  young  are  two  thirds 
grown  and  fly  well,  though  only  dire  necessity 
can  compel  them  to  try  their  wings.  In  gait, 
gestures,  habits,  and  general  behavior  they 
are  like  domestic  chickens,  but  infinitely  finer, 
searching  for  insects  and  seeds,  looking  to  this 
side  and  that,  scratching  among  fallen  leaves, 
jumping  up  to  pull  down  grass  heads,  and 
clucking  and  muttering  in  low  tones. 

Once  when  I  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  a  tree 

240 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

on  the  head-waters  of  the  Merced,  sketching,  I 
heard  a  flock  up  the  valley  behind  me,  and  by 
their  voices  gradually  sounding  nearer  I  knew 
that  they  were  feeding  toward  me.  I  kept  still, 
hoping  to  see  them.  Soon  one  came  within 
three  or  four  feet  of  me,  without  noticing  me 
any  more  than  if  I  were  a  stump  or  a  bulging 
part  of  the  trunk  against  which  I  was  leaning, 
my  clothing  being  brown,  nearly  like  the  bark. 
Presently  along  came  another  and  another,  and 
it  was  delightful  to  get  so  near  a  view  of  these 
handsome  chickens  perfectly  undisturbed,  ob 
serve  their  manners,  and  hear  their  low  peace 
ful  notes.  At  last  one  of  them  caught  my  eye, 
gazed  in  silent  wonder  for  a  moment,  then  ut 
tered  a  peculiar  cry,  which  was  followed  by  a 
lot  of  hurried  muttered  notes  that  sounded  like 
speech.  The  others,  of  course,  saw  me  as  soon 
as  the  alarm  was  sounded,  and  joined  the  won 
der  talk,  gazing  and  chattering,  astonished  but 
not  frightened.  Then  all  with  one  accord  ran 
back  with  the  news  to  the  rest  of  the  flock. 
"What  is  it?  what  is  it?  Oh,  you  never  saw 
the  like,"  they  seemed  to  be  saying.  "Not  a 
deer,  or  a  wolf,  or  a  bear;  come  see,  come  see." 
"Where?  where?"  "Down  there  by  that 
tree."  Then  they  approached  cautiously,  past 
the  tree,  stretching  their  necks,  and  looking  up 
in  turn  as  if  knowing  from  the  story  told  them 

241 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

just  where  I  was.  For  fifteen  or  twenty  min 
utes  they  kept  coming  and  going,  venturing 
within  a  few  feet  of  me,  and  discussing  the 
wonder  in  charming  chatter.  Their  curiosity 
at  last  satisfied,  they  began  to  scatter  and  feed 
again,  going  back  in  the  direction  they  had 
come  from;  while  I,  loath  to  part  with  them, 
followed  noiselessly,  crawling  beneath  the 
bushes,  keeping  them  in  sight  for  an  hour  or 
two,  learning  their  habits,  and  finding  out 
what  seeds  and  berries  they  liked  best. 

The  valley  quail  is  not  a  mountaineer,  and 
seldom  enters  the  Park  except  at  a  few  of  the 
lowest  places  on  the  western  boundary.  It  be 
longs  to  the  brushy  foothills  and  plains,  or 
chards  and  wheatfields,  and  is  a  hundred  times 
more  numerous  than  the  mountain  quail.  It  is 
a  beautiful  bird,  about  the  size  of  the  Bob 
White,  and  has  a  handsome  crest  of  four  or  five 
feathers  an  inch  long,  recurved,  standing  nearly 
erect  at  tunes  or  drooping  forward.  The  loud 
calls  of  these  quails  in  the  spring  —  pe-check- 
ah,  pe-check-a,  hoy,  hoy  —  are  heard  far  and 
near  over  all  the  lowlands.  They  have  vastly 
increased  in  numbers  since  the  settlement  of 
the  country,  notwithstanding  the  immense 
numbers  killed  every  season  by  boys  and  pot 
hunters  as  well  as  the  regular  legginged  sports 
men  from  the  towns;  for  man's  destructive 
242 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

action  is  more  than  counterbalanced  by  in 
creased  supply  of  food  from  cultivation,  and 
by  the  destruction  of  their  enemies  —  coyotes, 
skunks,  foxes,  hawks,  owls,  etc.  —  which  not 
only  kill  the  old  birds,  but  plunder  their  nests. 
Where  coyotes  and  skunks  abound,  scarce  one 
pair  in  a  hundred  is  successful  in  raising  a 
brood.  So  well  aware  are  these  birds  of  the 
protection  afforded  by  man,  even  now  that  the 
number  of  their  wild  enemies  has  been  greatly 
diminished,  that  they  prefer  to  nest  near 
houses,  notwithstanding  they  are  so  shy.  Four 
or  five  pah's  rear  their  young  around  our  cot 
tage  every  spring.  One  year  a  pair  nested  in  a 
straw  pile  within  four  or  five  feet  of  the  stable 
door,  and  did  not  leave  the  eggs  when  the  men 
led  the  horses  back  and  forth  within  a  foot 
or  two.  For  many  seasons  a  pah*  nested  in  a 
tuft  of  pampas  grass  in  the  garden;  another 
pair  in  an  ivy  vine  on  the  cottage  roof,  and 
when  the  young  were  hatched,  it  was  interest 
ing  to  see  the  parents  getting  the  fluffy  dots 
down.  They  were  greatly  excited,  and  their 
anxious  calls  and  directions  to  their  many 
babes  attracted  our  attention.  They  had  no 
great  difficulty  in  persuading  the  young  birds 
to  pitch  themselves  from  the  main  roof  to  the 
porch  roof  among  the  ivy,  but  to  get  them 
safely  down  from  the  latter  to  the  ground,  a 
243 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

distance  of  ten  feet,  was  most  distressing.  It 
seemed  impossible  the  frail  soft  things  could 
avoid  being  killed.  The  anxious  parents  led 
them  to  a  point  above  a  spiraea  bush,  that 
reached  nearly  to  the  eaves,  which  they  seemed 
to  know  would  break  the  fall.  Anyhow  they 
led  their  chicks  to  this  point,  and  with  infinite 
coaxing  and  encouragement  got  them  to  tum 
ble  themselves  off.  Down  they  rolled  and  sifted 
through  the  soft  leaves  and  panicles  to  the 
pavement,  and,  strange  to  say,  all  got  away 
unhurt  except  one  that  lay  as  if  dead  for  a  few 
minutes.  When  it  revived,  the  joyful  parents, 
with  their  brood  fairly  launched  on  the  jour 
ney  of  life,  proudly  led  them  down  the  cottage 
hill,  through  the  garden,  and  along  an  osage 
orange  hedge  into  the  cherry  orchard.  These 
charming  birds  even  enter  towns  and  villages, 
where  the  gardens  are  of  good  size  and  guns 
are  forbidden,  sometimes  going  several  miles 
to  feed,  and  returning  every  evening  to  their 
roosts  in  ivy  or  brushy  trees  and  shrubs. 

Geese  occasionally  visit  the  Park,  but  never 
stay  long.  Sometimes  on  their  way  across  the 
range,  a  flock  wanders  into  Hetch-Hetchy  or 
Yosemite  to  rest  or  get  something  to  eat,  and 
if  shot  at,  are  often  sorely  bewildered  in  seek 
ing  a  way  out.  I  have  seen  them  rise  from  the 
meadow  or  river,  wheel  round  in  a  spiral  until  a 

244 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

height  of  four  or  five  hundred  feet  was  reached, 
then  form  ranks  and  try  to  fly  over  the  wall. 
But  Yosemite  magnitudes  seem  to  be  as  decep 
tive  to  geese  as  to  men,  for  they  would  suddenly 
find  themselves  against  the  cliffs  not  a  fourth 
of  the  way  to  the  top.  Then  turning  in  con 
fusion,  and  screaming  at  the  strange  heights, 
they  would  try  the  opposite  side,  and  so  on 
until  exhausted  they  were  compelled  to  rest, 
and  only  after  discovering  the  river  canon 
could  they  make  their  escape.  Large,  harrow- 
shaped  flocks  may  often  be  seen  crossing  the 
range  in  the  spring,  at  a  height  of  at  least  four 
teen  thousand  feet.  Think  of  the  strength  of 
wing  required  to  sustain  so  heavy  a  bird  in  air 
so  thin.  At  this  elevation  it  is  but  little  over 
half  as  dense  as  at  the  sea  level.  Yet  they  hold 
bravely  on  in  beautifully  dressed  ranks,  and 
have  breath  enough  to  spare  for  loud  honking. 
After  the  crest  of  the  Sierra  is  passed  it  is  only 
a  smooth  slide  down  the  sky  to  the  waters  of 
Mono,  where  they  may  rest  as  long  as  they  like. 
Ducks  of  five  or  six  species,  among  which 
are  the  mallard  and  wood  duck,  go  far  up  into 
the  heart  of  the  mountains  in  the  spring,  and 
of  course  come  down  in  the  fall  with  the  fami 
lies  they  have  reared.  A  few,  as  if  loath  to 
leave  the  mountains,  pass  the  winter  in  the 
lower  valleys  of  the  Park  at  a  height  of  three 

245 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

thousand  to  four  thousand  feet,  where  the 
main  streams  are  never  wholly  frozen  over, 
and  snow  never  falls  to  a  great  depth  or  lies 
long.  In  summer  they  are  found  up  to  a 
height  of  eleven  thousand  feet  on  all  the  lakes 
and  branches  of  the  rivers  except  the  smallest, 
and  those  beside  the  glaciers  encumbered  with 
drifting  ice  and  snow.  I  found  mallards  and 
wood  ducks  at  Lake-  Tenaya,  June  1,  before 
the  ice-covering  was  half  melted,  and  a  flock 
of  young  ones  in  Bloody  Canon  Lake,  June 
20.  They  are  usually  met  in  pairs,  never  hi 
large  flocks.  No  place  is  too  wild  or  rocky  or 
solitary  for  these  brave  swimmers,  no  stream 
too  rapid.  In  the  roaring,  resounding  canon 
torrents,  they  seem  as  much  at  home  as  in  the 
tranquil  reaches  and  lakes  of  the  broad  glacial 
valleys.  Abandoning  themselves  to  the  wild 
play  of  the  waters,  they  go  drifting  confidingly 
through  blinding,  thrashing  spray,  dancing  on 
boulder-dashed  waves,  tossing  in  beautiful  se 
curity  on  rougher  water  than  is  usually  encoun 
tered  by  sea  birds  when  storms  are  blowing. 

A  mother  duck  with  her  family  of  ten  little 
ones,  waltzing  round  and  round  in  a  pothole 
ornamented  with  foam  bells,  huge  rocks  leaning 
over  them,  cascades  above  and  below  and  be 
side  them,  made  one  of  the  most  interesting 
bird  pictures  I  ever  saw. 

246 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

I  have  never  found  the  great  northern  diver 
in  the  Park  lakes.  Most  of  them  are  inacces 
sible  to  him.  He  might  plump  down  into  them, 
but  would  hardly  be  able  to  get  out  of  them, 
since,  with  his  small  wings  and  heavy  body,  a 
wide  expanse  of  elbow  room  is  required  in  ris 
ing.  Now  and  then  one  may  be  seen  in  the  lower 
Sierra  lakes  to  the  northward  about  Lassens 
Butte  and  Shasta,  at  a  height  of  four  thousand 
to  five  thousand  feet,  making  the  loneliest 
places  lonelier  with  the  wildest  of  wild  cries. 

Plovers  are  found  along  the  sandy  shores  of 
nearly  all  the  mountain  lakes,  tripping  daintily 
on  the  water's  edge,  picking  up  insects;  and  it  is 
interesting  to  learn  how  few  of  these  familiar 
birds  are  required  to  make  a  solitude  cheerful. 

Sandhill  cranes  are  sometimes  found  in  com 
paratively  small  marshes,  mere  dots  in  the 
mighty  forest.  In  such  spots,  at  an  elevation  of 
from  six  thousand  to  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  they  are  occasionally  met  in  pah's  as 
early  as  the  end  of  May,  while  the  snow  is  still 
deep  in  the  surrounding  fir  and  sugar-pine 
woods.  And  on  sunny  days  in  autumn,  large 
flocks  may  be  seen  sailing  at  a  great  height 
above  the  forests,  shaking  the  crisp  air  into 
rolling  waves  with  their  hearty  koor-r-r,  koor-r-r, 
uck-uck,  soaring  in  circles  for  hours  together  on 
their  majestic  wings,  seeming  to  float  without 

247 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

effort  like  clouds,  eyeing  the  wrinkled  landscape 
outspread  like  a  map  mottled  with  lakes  and 
glaciers  and  meadows  and  streaked  with  shad 
owy  canons  and  streams,  and  surveying  every 
frog  marsh  and  sandy  flat  within  a  hundred 
miles. 

Eagles  and  hawks  are  oftentimes  seen  above 
the  ridges  and  domes.  The  greatest  height  at 
which  I  have  observed  them  was  about  twelve 
thousand  feet,  over  the  summits  of  Mount 
Hoffman,  in  the  middle  region  of  the  Park.  A 
few  pairs  had  their  nests  on  the  cliffs  of  this 
mountain,  and  could  be  seen  every  day  in  sum 
mer,  hunting  marmots,  mountain  beavers, 
pikas,  etc.  A  parr  of  golden  eagles  have  made 
their  home  in  Yosemite  ever  since  I  went  there 
thirty  years  ago.  Their  nest  is  on  the  Nevada 
Fall  CUff,  opposite  the  Liberty  Cap.  Their 
screams  are  rather  pleasant  to  hear  in  the  vast 
gulfs  between  the  granite  cliffs,  and  they  help 
the  owls  hi  keeping  the  echoes  busy. 

But  of  all  the  birds  of  the  high  Sierra,  the 
strangest,  noisiest,  and  most  notable  is  the 
Clarke  crow  (Nucifraga  columbiana).  He  is  a 
foot  long  and  nearly  two  feet  in  extent  of  wing, 
ashy  gray  in  general  color,  with  black  wings, 
white  tail,  and  a  strong,  sharp  bill,  with  which 
he  digs  into  the  pine  cones  for  the  seeds  on 
which  he  mainly  subsists.  He  is  quick,  boister- 

248 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

ous,  jerky,  and  irregular  in  his  movements  and 
speech,  and  makes  a  tremendously  loud  and 
showy  advertisement  of  himself,  —  swooping 
and  diving  in  deep  curves  across  gorges  and 
valleys  from  ridge  to  ridge,  alighting  on  dead 
spars,  looking  warily  about  him,  and  leaving  his 
dry,  springy  perches  trembling  from  the  vigor 
of  his  kick  as  he  launches  himself  for  a  new 
flight,  screaming  from  time  to  time  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  more  than  a  mile  in  still  weather. 
He  dwells  far  back  on  the  high  storm-beaten 
margin  of  the  forest,  where  the  mountain  pine, 
juniper,  and  hemlock  grow  wide  apart  on  gla 
cier  pavements  and  domes  and  rough  crum 
bling  ridges,  and  the  dwarf  pine  makes  a  low 
crinkled  growth  along  the  flanks  of  the  Summit 
peaks.  In  so  open  a  region,  of  course,  he  is  well 
seen.  Everybody  notices  him,  and  nobody  at 
first  knows  what  to  make  of  him.  One  guesses 
he  must  be  a  woodpecker;  another  a  crow  or 
some  sort  of  jay,  another  a  magpie.  He  seems 
to  be  a  pretty  thoroughly  mixed  and  fermented 
compound  of  all  these  birds,  has  all  their 
strength,  cunning,  shyness,  thievishness,  and 
wary,  suspicious  curiosity  combined  and  con 
densed.  He  flies  like  a  woodpecker,  hammers 
dead  limbs  for  insects,  digs  big  holes  in  pine 
cones  to  get  at  the  seeds,  cracks  nuts  held  be 
tween  his  toes,  cries  like  a  crow  or  Stellar  jay, 
249 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

—  but  in  a  far  louder,  harsher,  and  more  for 
bidding  tone  of  voice,  —  and  besides  his  crow 
caws  and  screams,  has  a  great  variety  of  small 
chatter  talk,  mostly  uttered  in  a  fault-finding 
tone.  Like  the  magpie,  he  steals  articles  that 
can  be  of  no  use  to  him.  Once  when  I  made 
my  camp  in  a  grove  at  Cathedral  Lake,  I 
chanced  to  leave  a  cake  of  soap  on  the  shore 
where  I  had  been  washing,  and  a  few  minutes 
afterward  I  saw  my  soap  flying  past  me  through 
the  grove,  pushed  by  a  Clarke  crow. 

In  winter,  when  the  snow  is  deep,  the  cones 
of  the  mountain  pines  are  empty,  and  the  juni 
per,  hemlock,  and  dwarf  pine  orchard  buried, 
he  comes  down  to  glean  seeds  in  the  yellow 
pine  forests,  startling  the  grouse  with  his  loud 
screams.  But  even  in  winter,  in  calm  weather, 
he  stays  in  his  high  mountain  home,  defying 
the  bitter  frost.  Once  I  lay  snowbound  through 
a  three  days'  storm  at  the  timber-line  on 
Mount  Shasta;  and  while  the  roaring  snow- 
laden  blast  swept  by,  one  of  these  brave  birds 
came  to  my  camp,  and  began  hammering  at 
the  cones  on  the  topmost  branches  of  half- 
buried  pines,  without  showing  the  slightest  dis 
tress.  I  have  seen  Clarke  crows  feeding  their 
young  as  early  as  June  19,  at  a  height  of  more 
than  ten  thousand  feet,  when  nearly  the  whole 
landscape  was  snow-covered. 

250 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

They  are  excessively  shy,  and  keep  away 
from  the  traveler  as  long  as  they  think  they  are 
observed ;  but  when  one  goes  on  without  seem 
ing  to  notice  them,  or  sits  down  and  keeps  still, 
their  curiosity  speedily  gets  the  better  of  their 
caution,  and  they  come  flying  from  tree  to  tree, 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  watch  every  motion. 
Few,  I  am  afraid,  will  ever  learn  to  like  this 
bird,  he  is  so  suspicious  and  self-reliant,  and  his 
voice  is  so  harsh  that  to  most  ears  the  scream 
of  the  eagle  will  seem  melodious  compared  with 
it.  Yet  the  mountaineer  who  has  battled  and 
suffered  and  struggled  must  admire  his  strength 
and  endurance,  —  the  way  he  faces  the  moun 
tain  weather,  cleaves  the  icy  blasts,  cares  for 
his  young,  and  digs  a  living  from  the  stern  wil 
derness. 

Higher  yet  than  Nucifraga  dwells  the  little 
dun-headed  sparrow  (Leucosticte  tephrocotis) . 
From  early  spring  to  late  autumn  he  is  to  be 
found  only  on  the  snowy,  icy  peaks  at  the  head 
of  the  glacier  cirques  and  canons.  His  feeding 
grounds  in  spring  are  the  snow  sheets  between 
the  peaks,  and  in  midsummer  and  autumn  the 
glaciers.  Many  bold  insects  go  mountaineer 
ing  almost  as  soon  as  they  are  born,  ascending 
the  highest  summits  on  the  mild  breezes  that 
blow  in  from  the  sea  every  day  during  steady 
weather;  but  comparatively  few  of  these  adven- 

251 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

turers  find  their  way  down  or  see  a  flower  bed 
again.  Getting  tired  and  chilly,  they  alight  on 
the  snow  fields  and  glaciers,  attracted  perhaps 
by  the  glare,  take  cold,  and  die.  There  they  he 
as  if  on  a  white  cloth  purposely  outspread  for 
them,  and  the  dun  sparrows  find  them  a  rich 
and  varied  repast  requiring  no  pursuit,  —  bees 
and  butterflies  on  ice,  and  many  spicy  beetles, 
a  perpetual  feast,  on  tables  big  for  guests  so 
small,  and  in  vast  banqueting  halls  ventilated 
by  cool  breezes  that  ruffle  the  feathers  of  the 
fairy  brownies.  Happy  fellows,  no  rivals  come 
to  dispute  possession  with  them.  No  other 
birds,  not  even  hawks,  as  far  as  I  have  noticed, 
live  so  high.  They  see  people  so  seldom,  they 
flutter  around  the  explorer  with  the  liveliest 
curiosity,  and  come  down  a  little  way,  some- 
tunes  nearly  a  mile,  to  meet  him  and  conduct 
him  into  then*  icy  homes. 

When  I  was  exploring  the  Merced  group, 
climbing  up  the  grand  canon  between  the  Mer 
ced  and  Red  Mountains  into  the  fountain  am 
phitheater  of  an  ancient  glacier,  just  as  I  was 
approaching  the  small  active  glacier  that  leans 
back  in  the  shadow  of  Merced  Mountain,  a 
flock  of  twenty  or  thirty  of  these  little  birds,  the 
first  I  had  seen,  came  down  the  canon  to  meet 
me,  flying  low,  straight  toward  me  as  if  they 
meant  to  fly  in  my  face.  Instead  of  attacking 
252 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

me  or  passing  by,  they  circled  round  my  head, 
chirping  and  fluttering  for  a  minute  or  two, 
then  turned  and  escorted  me  up  the  canon, 
alighting  on  the  nearest  rocks  on  either  hand, 
and  flying  ahead  a  few  yards  at  a  tune  to  keep 
even  with  me. 

I  have  not  discovered  their  winter  quarters. 
Probably  they  are  in  the  desert  ranges  to  the 
eastward,  for  I  never  saw  any  of  them  in  Yo- 
semite,  the  winter  refuge  of  so  many  of  the 
mountain  birds. 

Hummingbirds  are  among  the  best  and  most 
conspicuous  of  the  mountaineers,  flashing  their 
ruby  throats  in  countless  wild  gardens  far  up 
the  higher  slopes,  where  they  would  be  least 
expected.  All  one  has  to  do  to  enjoy  the  com 
pany  of  these  mountain-loving  midgets  is  to 
display  a  showy  blanket  or  handkerchief. 

The  arctic  bluebird  is  another  delightful 
mountaineer,  singing  a  wild,  cheery  song  and 
"carrying  the  sky  on  his  back"  over  all  the 
gray  ridges  and  domes  of  the  subalpine  region. 

A  fine,  hearty,  good-natured  lot  of  wood 
peckers  dwell  in  the  Park,  and  keep  it  lively  all 
the  year  round.  Among  the  most  notable  of 
these  are  the  magnificent  log  cock  (Ceophlceus 
pileatus},  the  prince  of  Sierra  woodpeckers,  and 
only  second  in  rank,  as  far  as  I  know,  of  all  the 
woodpeckers  of  the  world;  the  Lewis  wood- 

253 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

pecker,  large,  black,  glossy,  that  flaps  and  flies 
like  a  crow,  does  but  little  hammering,  and  feeds 
in  great  part  on  wild  cherries  and  berries;  and 
the  carpenter,  who  stores  up  great  quantities 
of  acorns  in  the  bark  of  trees  for  winter  use. 
The  last-named  species  is  a  beautiful  bird,  and 
far  more  common  than  the  others.  In  the 
woods  of  the  West  he  represents  the  Eastern 
red-head.  Bright,  cheerful,  industrious,  not  in 
the  least  shy,  the  carpenters  give  delightful 
animation  to  the  open  Sierra  forests  at  a  height 
of  from  three  thousand  to  fifty-five  hundred 
feet,  especially  in  autumn,  when  the  acorns  are 
ripe.  Then  no  squirrel  works  harder  at  his 
pine-nut  harvest  than  these  woodpeckers  at 
their  acorn  harvest,  drilling  holes  in  the  thick, 
corky  bark  of  the  yellow  pine  and  incense  cedar, 
in  which  to  store  the  crop  for  winter  use,  —  a 
hole  for  each  acorn,  so  nicely  adjusted  as  to 
size  that  when  the  acorn,  point  foremost,  is 
driven  in,  it  fits  so  well  that  it  cannot  be  drawn 
out  without  digging  around  it.  Each  acorn  is 
thus  carefully  stored  in  a  dry  bin,  perfectly 
protected  from  the  weather,  —  a  most  labori 
ous  method  of  stowing  away  a  crop,  a  granary 
for  each  kernel.  Yet  the  birds  seem  never  to 
weary  at  the  work,  but  go  on  so  diligently  that 
they  seem  determined  to  save  every  acorn  in 
the  grove.  They  are  never  seen  eating  acorns 

254 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

at  the  time  they  are  storing  them,  and  it  is 
commonly  believed  that  they  never  eat  them  or 
intend  to  eat  them,  but  that  the  wise  birds 
store  them  and  protect  them  from  the  depre 
dations  of  squirrels  and  jays,  solely  for  the  sake 
of  the  worms  they  are  supposed  to  contain. 
And  because  these  worms  are  too  small  for  use 
at  the  time  the  acorns  drop,  they  are  shut  up 
like  lean  calves  and  steers,  each  in  a  separate 
stall  with  abundance  of  food,  to  grow  big  and 
fat  by  the  tune  they  will  be  most  wanted,  that 
is,  in  winter,  when  insects  are  scarce  and  stall- 
fed  worms  most  valuable.  So  these  wood 
peckers  are  supposed  to  be  a  sort  of  cattle- 
raisers,  each  with  a  drove  of  thousands,  rivaling 
the  ants  that  raise  grain  and  keep  herds  of  plant 
lice  for  milk  cows.  Needless  to  say  the  story 
is  not  true,  though  some  naturalists,  even,  be 
lieve  it.  When  Emerson  was  in  the  Park,  hav 
ing  heard  the  worm  story  and  seen  the  great 
pines  plugged  full  of  acorns,  he  asked  (just  to 
pump  me,  I  suppose),  "Why  do  the  wood 
peckers  take  the  trouble  to  put  acorns  into  the 
bark  of  the  trees?"  "For  the  same  rea 
son,"  I  replied,  "that  bees  store  honey  and 
squirrels  nuts."  "But  they  tell  me,  Mr.  Muir, 
that  woodpeckers  don't  eat  acorns."  "Yes, 
they  do,"  I  said,  "I  have  seen  them  eating 
them.  During  snowstorms  they  seem  to  eat 

255 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

little  besides  acorns.  I  have  repeatedly  inter 
rupted  them  at  their  meals,  and  seen  the  per 
fectly  sound,  half -eaten  acorns.  They  eat  them 
in  the  shell  as  some  people  eat  eggs."  "But 
what  about  the  worms?"  "I  suppose,"  I  said, 
"that  when  they  come  to  a  wormy  one  they 
eat  both  worm  and  acorn.  Anyhow,  they  eat 
the  sound  ones  when  they  can't  find  anything 
they  like  better,  and  from  the  tune  they  store 
them  until  they  are  used  they  guard  them,  and 
woe  to  the  squirrel  or  jay  caught  stealing." 
Indians,  in  tunes  of  scarcity,  frequently  resort 
to  these  stores  and  chop  them  out  with  hatch 
ets;  a  bushel  or  more  may  be  gathered  from  a 
single  cedar  or  pine. 

The  common  robin,  with  all  his  familiar 
notes  and  gestures,  is  found  nearly  everywhere 
throughout  the  Park,  —  in  shady  dells  be 
neath  dogwoods  and  maples,  along  the  flowery 
banks  of  the  streams,  tripping  daintily  about 
the  margins  of  meadows  in  the  fir  and  pine 
woods,  and  far  beyond  on  the  shores  of  glacier 
lakes  and  the  slopes  of  the  peaks.  How  admir 
able  the  constitution  and  temper  of  this  cheery, 
graceful  bird,  keeping  glad  health  over  so  vast 
and  varied  a  range!  In  all  America  he  is  at 
home,  flying  from  plains  to  mountains,  up  and 
down,  north  and  south,  away  and  back,  with 
the  seasons  and  supply  of  food.  Oftentimes  in 
256 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

the  High  Sierra,  as  you  wander  through  the  sol 
emn  woods,  awe-stricken  and  silent,  you  will 
hear  the  reassuring  voice  of  this  fellow  wan 
derer  ringing  out  sweet  and  clear  as  if  saying, 
"Fear  not,  fear  not.  Only  love  is  here."  In  the 
severest  solitudes  he  seems  as  happy  as  in  gar 
dens  and  apple  orchards. 

The  robins  enter  the  Park  as  soon  as  the 
snow  melts,  and  go  on  up  the  mountains,  grad 
ually  higher,  with  the  opening  flowers,  until 
the  topmost  glacier  meadows  are  reached  in 
June  and  July.  After  the  short  summer  is  done, 
they  descend  like  most  other  summer  visitors 
in  concord  with  the  weather,  keeping  out  of  the 
first  heavy  snows  as  much  as  possible,  while 
lingering  among  the  frost-nipped  wild  cherries 
on  the  slopes  just  below  the  glacier  meadows. 
Thence  they  go  to  the  lower  slopes  of  the  forest 
region,  compelled  to  make  haste  at  tunes  by 
heavy  all-day  storms,  picking  up  seeds  or  be 
numbed  insects  by  the  way;  and  at  last  all, 
save  a  few  that  winter  in  Yosemite  valleys, 
arrive  in  the  vineyards  and  orchards  and  stub 
ble-fields  of  the  lowlands  hi  November,  picking 
up  fallen  fruit  and  grain,  and  awakening  old- 
time  memories  among  the  white-headed  pio 
neers,  who  cannot  fail  to  recognize  the  influ 
ence  of  so  homelike  a  bird.  They  are  then  in 
flocks  of  hundreds,  and  make  their  way  into  the 

257 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

gardens  of  towns  as  well  as  into  the  parks  and 
fields  and  orchards  about  the  bay  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  where  many  of  the  wanderers  are  shot 
for  sport  and  the  morsel  of  meat  on  their 
breasts.  Man  then  seems  a  beast  of  prey.  Not 
even  genuine  piety  can  make  the  robin-killer 
quite  respectable.  Saturday  is  the  great  slaugh 
ter  day  in  the  bay  region.  Then  the  city  pot 
hunters,  with  a  rag-tag  of  boys,  go  forth  to  kill, 
kept  in  countenance  by  a  sprinkling  of  regular 
sportsmen  arrayed  in  self-conscious  majesty 
and  leggings,  leading  dogs  and  carrying  ham- 
merless,  breech-loading  guns  of  famous  makers. 
Over  the  fine  landscapes  the  killing  goes  for 
ward  with  shameful  enthusiasm.  After  escaping 
countless  dangers,  thousands  fall,  big  bagfuls 
are  gathered,  many  are  left  wounded  to  die 
slowly,  no  Red  Cross  Society  to  help  them. 
Next  day,  Sunday,  the  blood  and  leggings  van 
ish  from  the  most  devout  of  the  bird-butchers, 
who  go  to  church,  carrying  gold-headed  canes 
instead  of  guns.  After  hymns,  prayers,  and 
sermon  they  go  home  to  feast,  to  put  God's 
song  birds  to  use,  put  them  in  their  dinners  in 
stead  of  in  their  hearts,  eat  them,  and  suck  the 
pitiful  little  drumsticks.  It  is  only  race  living 
on  race,  to  be  sure,  but  Christians  singing  Di 
vine  Love  need  not  be  driven  to  such  straits 
while  wheat  and  apples  grow  and  the  shops 

258 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

are  full  of  dead  cattle.  Song  birds  for  food! 
Compared  with  this,  making  kindlings  of  pia 
nos  and  violins  would  be  pious  economy. 

The  larks  come  in  large  flocks  from  the  hills 
and  mountains  in  the  fall,  and  are  slaughtered 
as  ruthlessly  as  the  robins.  Fortunately,  most 
of  our  song  birds  keep  back  in  leafy  hidings, 
and  are  comparatively  inaccessible. 

The  water-ouzel,  in  his  rocky  home  amid 
foaming  waters,  seldom  sees  a  gun,  and  of  all 
the  singers  I  like  him  the  best.  He  is  a  plainly 
dressed  little  bird,  about  the  size  of  a  robin, 
with  short,  crisp,  but  rather  broad  wings,  and 
a  tail  of  moderate  length,  slanted  up,  giving 
him,  with  his  nodding,  bobbing  manners,  a 
wrennish  look.  He  is  usually  seen  fluttering 
about  in  the  spray  of  falls  and  the  rapid  cas 
cading  portions  of  the  main  branches  of  the 
rivers.  These  are  his  favorite  haunts;  but  he  is 
often  seen  also  on  comparatively  level  reaches 
and  occasionally  on  the  shores  of  mountain 
lakes,  especially  at  the  beginning  of  winter, 
when  heavy  snowfalls  have  blurred  the  streams 
with  sludge.  Though  not  a  water-bird  in  struc 
ture,  he  gets  his  living  in  the  water,  and  is 
never  seen  away  from  the  immediate  margin  of 
streams.  He  dives  fearlessly  into  rough,  boiling 
eddies  and  rapids  to  feed  at  the  bottom,  flying 
under  water  seemingly  as  easily  as  hi  the  air. 

259 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Sometimes  he  wades  in  shallow  places,  thrust 
ing  his  head  under  from  time  to  time  in  a  nod 
ding,  frisky  way  that  is  sure  to  attract  atten 
tion.  His  flight  is  a  solid  whir  of  wing-beats  like 
that  of  a  partridge,  and  in  going  from  place  to 
place  along  his  favorite  string  of  rapids  he  fol 
lows  the  windings  of  the  stream,  and  usually 
alights  on  some  rock  or  snag  on  the  bank  or 
out  in  the  current,  or  rarely  on  the  dry  limb  of 
an  overhanging  tree,  perching  like  a  tree  bird 
when  it  suits  his  convenience.  He  has  the  odd 
est,  neatest  manners  imaginable,  and  all  his 
gestures  as  he  flits  about  in  the  wild,  dashing 
waters  bespeak  the  utmost  cheerfulness  and 
confidence.  He  sings  both  winter  and  summer, 
in  all  sorts  of  weather,  —  a  sweet,  fluty  melody, 
rather  low,  and  much  less  keen  and  accentu 
ated  than  from  the  brisk  vigor  of  his  move 
ments  one  would  be  led  to  expect. 

How  romantic  and  beautiful  is  the  life  of  this 
brave  little  singer  on  the  wild  mountain  streams, 
building  his  round  bossy  nest  of  moss  by  the 
side  of  a  rapid  or  fall,  where  it  is  sprinkled  and 
kept  fresh  and  green  by  the  spray !  No  wonder 
he  sings  well,  since  all  the  air  about  him  is  mu 
sic  ;  every  breath  he  draws  is  part  of  a  song,  and 
he  gets  his  first  music  lessons  before  he  is  born; 
for  the  eggs  vibrate  in  tune  with  the  tones  of 
the  waterfalls.  Bird  and  stream  are  insepa- 

260 


THE  BIRDS  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

rable,  songful  and  wild,  gentle  and  strong,  — 
the  bird  ever  in  danger  in  the  midst  of  the 
stream's  mad  whirlpools,  yet  seemingly  im 
mortal.  And  so  I  might  go  on,  writing  words, 
words,  words;  but  to  what  purpose?  Go  see 
him  and  love  him,  and  through  him  as  through 
a  window  look  into  Nature's  warm  heart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   FOUNTAINS   AND    STREAMS   OF   THE 
YOSEMITE   NATIONAL   PARK 

"  Come  let  'a  to  the  fields,  the  meads,  and  the  mountains, 
The  forests  invite  us,  the  streams  and  the  fountains." 

Carlyle,  Translations,  vol.  in. 

THE  joyful,  songful  streams  of  the  Sierra 
are  among  the  most  famous  and  interesting  in 
the  world,  and  draw  the  admiring  traveler  on 
and  on  through  their  wonderful  canons,  year 
after  year,  unwearied.  After  long  wanderings 
with  them,  tracing  them  to  their  fountains, 
learning  then*  history  and  the  forms  they  take 
in  their  wild  works  and  ways  throughout  the 
different  seasons  of  the  year,  we  may  then  view 
them  together  in  one  magnificent  show,  out 
spread  over  all  the  range  like  embroidery, 
their  silvery  branches  interlacing  on  a  thou 
sand  mountains,  singing  their  way  home  to  the 
sea:  the  small  rills,  with  hard  roads  to  travel, 
dropping  from  ledge  to  ledge,  pool  to  pool,  like 
chains  of  sweet-toned  bells,  slipping  gently  over 
beds  of  pebbles  and  sand,  resting  in  lakes,  shin 
ing,  spangling,  shimmering,  lapping  the  shores 
with  whispering  ripples,  and  shaking  over- 
leaning  bushes  and  grass;  the  larger  streams 
and  rivers  in  the  canons  displaying  noble  pu- 

262 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

rity  and  beauty  with  ungovernable  energy, 
rushing  down  smooth  inclines  in  wide  foamy 
sheets  fold  over  fold,  springing  up  here  and 
there  in  magnificent  whirls,  scattering  crisp 
clashing  spray  for  the  sunbeams  to  iris,  burst 
ing  with  hoarse  reverberating  roar  through 
rugged  gorges  and  boulder  dams,  booming  in 
falls,  gliding,  glancing  with  cool  soothing  mur 
muring,  through  long  forested  reaches  richly 
embowered,  —  filling  the  grand  canons  with 
glorious  song,  and  giving  life  to  all  the  land 
scape. 

The  present  rivers  of  the  Sierra  are  still 
young,  and  have  made  but  little  mark  as  yet 
on  the  grand  canons  prepared  for  them  by  the 
ancient  glaciers.  Only  a  very  short  geological 
time  ago  they  all  lay  buried  beneath  the  gla 
ciers  they  drained,  singing  in  low  smothered  or 
silvery  ringing  tones  in  crystal  channels,  while 
the  summer  weather  melted  the  ice  and  snow 
of  the  surface  or  gave  showers.  At  first  only  in 
warm  weather  was  any  part  of  these  buried 
rivers  displayed  in  the  light  of  day;  for  as 
soon  as  frost  prevailed  the  surface  rills  van 
ished,  though  the  streams  beneath  the  ice  and 
in  the  body  of  it  flowed  on  all  the  year. 

When,  toward  the  close  of  the  glacial  period, 
the  ice  mantle  began  to  shrink  and  recede  from 
the  lowlands,  the  lower  portions  of  the  rivers 

263 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

were  developed,  issuing  from  cavelike  openings 
on  the  melting  margin  and  growing  longer  as 
the  ice  withdrew;  while  for  many  a  century  the 
tributaries  and  upper  portions  of  the  trunks 
remained  covered.  In  the  fullness  of  time  these 
also  were  set  free  in  the  sunshine,  to  take  their 
places  in  the  newborn  landscapes;  each  tribu 
tary  with  its  smaller  branches  being  gradually 
developed  like  the  main  trunks,  as  the  clima 
tic  changes  went  on.  At  first  all  of  them  were 
muddy  with  glacial  detritus,  and  they  became 
clear  only  after  the  glaciers  they  drained  had 
receded  beyond  lake  basins  in  which  the  sedi 
ments  were  dropped. 

This  early  history  is  clearly  explained  by  the 
present  rivers  of  southeastern  Alaska.  Of  those 
draining  glaciers  that  discharge  into  arms  of 
the  sea,  only  the  rills  on  the  surface  of  the  ice, 
and  upboiling,  eddying,  turbid  currents  in  the 
tide  water  in  front  of  the  terminal  ice  wall,  are 
visible.  Where  glaciers,  in  the  first  stage  of 
decadence,  have  receded  from  the  shore,  short 
sections  of  the  trunks  of  the  rivers  that  are  to 
take  their  places  may  be  seen  rushing  out  from 
caverns  and  tunnels  in  the  melting  front,  — 
rough,  roaring,  detritus-laden  torrents,  foam 
ing  and  tumbling  over  outspread  terminal  mo 
raines  to  the  sea,  perhaps  without  a  single  bush 
or  flower  to  brighten  their  raw,  shifting  banks. 
264 


STREAMS  OF   YOSEMITE  PARK 

Again,  in  some  of  the  warmer  canons  and  val 
leys  from  which  the  trunk  glaciers  have  been 
melted,  the  main  trunks  of  the  rivers  are  well 
developed,  and  their  banks  planted  with  fine 
forests,  while  their  upper  branches,  lying  high 
on  the  snowy  mountains,  are  still  buried  be 
neath  shrinking  residual  glaciers;  illustrating 
every  stage  of  development,  from  icy  darkness 
to  light,  and  from  muddmess  to  crystal  clear 
ness. 

Now  that  the  hard  grinding  sculpture  work 
of  the  glacial  period  is  done,  the  whole  bright 
band  of  Sierra  rivers  run  clear  all  the  year,  ex 
cept  when  the  snow  is  melting  fast  in  the  warm 
spring  weather,  and  during  extraordinary  win 
ter  floods  and  the  heavy  thunderstorms  of 
summer  called  cloud-bursts.  Even  then  they 
are  not  muddy  above  the  foothill  mining  re 
gion,  unless  the  moraines  have  been  loosened 
and  the  vegetation  destroyed  by  sheep ;  for  the 
rocks  of  the  upper  basins  are  clean,  and  the 
most  able  streams  find  but  little  to  carry  save 
the  spoils  of  the  forest,  —  trees,  branches, 
flakes  of  bark,  cones,  leaves,  pollen  dust,  etc., 
—  with  scales  of  mica,  sand  grains,  and  boul 
ders,  which  are  rolled  along  the  bottom  of  the 
steep  parts  of  the  main  channels.  Short  sec 
tions  of  a  few  of  the  highest  tributaries  head 
ing  in  glaciers  are  of  course  turbid  with  finely 

265 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ground  rock  mud,  but  this  is  dropped  in  the 
first  lakes  they  enter. 

On  the  northern  part  of  the  range,  mantled 
with  porous  fissured  volcanic  rocks,  the  foun 
tain  waters  sink  and  flow  below  the  surface  for 
considerable  distances,  groping  their  way  in  the 
dark  like  the  draining  streams  of  glaciers,  and 
at  last  bursting  forth  in  big  generous  springs, 
filtered  and  cool  and  exquisitely  clear.  Some 
of  the  largest  look  like  lakes,  their  waters  well 
ing  straight  up  from  the  bottom  of  deep  rock 
basins  in  quiet  massive  volume  giving  rise  to 
young  rivers.  Others  issue  from  horizontal 
clefts  in  sheer  bluffs,  with  loud  tumultuous 
roaring  that  may  be  heard  half  a  mile  or  more. 
Magnificent  examples  of  these  great  northern 
spring  fountains,  twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep 
and  ten  to  nearly  a  hundred  yards  wide,  abound 
on  the  main  branches  of  the  Feather,  Pitt,  Mc- 
Cloud,  and  Fall  rivers. 

The  springs  of  the  Yosemite  Park,  and  the 
high  Sierra  in  general,  though  many  times  more 
numerous,  are  comparatively  small,  oozing 
from  moraines  and  snowbanks  in  thin,  flat  ir 
regular  currents  which  remain  on  the  surface  or 
near  it,  the  rocks  of  the  south  half  of  the  range 
being  mostly  flawless  impervious  granite;  and 
since  granite  is  but  slightly  soluble,  the  streams 
are  particularly  pure.  Nevertheless,  though 

266 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

they  are  all  clear,  and  in  the  upper  and  main 
central  forest  regions  delightfully  lively  and 
cool,  they  vary  somewhat  in  color  and  taste  as 
well  as  temperature,  on  account  of  differences, 
however  slight,  in  exposure,  and  in  the  rocks 
and  vegetation  with  which  they  come  in  con 
tact.  Some  are  more  exposed  than  others  to 
winds  and  sunshine  in  their  falls  and  thin 
plumelike  cascades;  the  amount  of  dashing, 
mixing,  and  airing  the  waters  of  each  receive 
varies  considerably;  and  there  is  always  more 
or  less  variety  in  the  kind  and  quantity  of  the 
vegetation  they  flow  through,  and  in  the  time 
they  he  in  shady  or  sunny  lakes  and  bogs. 

The  water  of  one  of  the  branches  of  the 
north  fork  of  Owens  River,  near  the  southeast 
ern  boundary  of  the  Park,  at  an  elevation  of 
ninety-five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  is  the 
best  I  ever  found.  It  is  not  only  delightfully 
cool  and  bright,  but  brisk,  sparkling,  exhilarat 
ing,  and  so  positively  delicious  to  the  taste  that 
a  party  of  friends  I  led  to  it  twenty-five  years 
ago  still  praise  it,  and  refer  to  it  as  "that  won 
derful  champagne  water";  though,  compara 
tively,  the  finest  wine  is  a  coarse  and  vulgar 
drink.  The  party  camped  about  a  week  in  a 
pine  grove  on  the  edge  of  a  little  round  sedgy 
meadow  through  which  the  stream  ran  bank 
full,  and  drank  its  icy  water  on  frosty  mornings, 
267 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

before  breakfast,  and  at  night  about  as  eagerly 
as  in  the  heat  of  the  day;  lying  down  and  tak 
ing  massy  draughts  direct  from  the  brimming 
flood,  lest  the  touch  of  a  cup  might  disturb  its 
celestial  flavor.  On  one  of  my  excursions  I  took 
pains  to  trace  this  stream  to  its  head  springs. 
It  is  mostly  derived  from  snow  that  lies  in 
heavy  drifts  and  avalanche  heaps  on  or  near 
the  axis  of  the  range.  It  flows  first  in  flat  sheets 
over  coarse  sand  or  shingle  derived  from  a 
granite  ridge  and  the  metamorphic  slates  of 
Red  Mountain.  Then,  gathering  its  many 
small  branches,  it  runs  through  beds  of  mo 
raine  material,  and  a  series  of  lakelets  and 
meadows  and  frosty  juicy  bogs  bordered  with 
heathworts  and  linked  together  by  short  boul- 
dery  reaches.  Below  these,  growing  strong  with 
tribute  drawn  from  many  a  snowy  fountain  on 
either  side,  the  glad  stream  goes  dashing  and 
swirling  through  clumps  of  the  white-barked 
pine,  and  tangled  willow  and  alder  thickets  en 
riched  by  the  fragrant  herbaceous  vegetation 
usually  found  about  them.  And  just  above  the 
level  camp  meadow  it  is  chafed  and  churned 
and  beaten  white  over  and  over  again  in  cross 
ing  a  talus  of  big  earthquake  boulders,  giving 
it  a  very  thorough  airing.  But  to  what  the 
peculiar  indefinable  excellence  of  this  water  is 
due  I  don't  know;  for  other  streams  in  adjacent 

268 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

canons  are  aired  in  about  the  same  way,  and 
draw  traces  of  minerals  and  plant  essences  from 
similar  sources.  The  best  mineral  water  yet 
discovered  in  the  Park  flows  from  the  Tuo- 
lumne  soda  springs,  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Big  Meadow.  Mountaineers  like  it  and  as 
cribe  every  healing  virtue  to  it,  but  in  no  way 
can  any  of  these  waters  be  compared  with  the 
Owens  River  champagne. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  waters  of  some 
of  the  Sierra  lakes  and  streams  are  invisible,  or 
nearly  so,  under  certain  weather  conditions. 
This  is  noticed  by  mountaineers,  hunters,  and 
prospectors,  wide-awake,  sharp-eyed  observ 
ers,  little  likely  to  be  fooled  by  fine  whims.  One 
of  these  mountain  men,  whom  I  had  nursed 
while  a  broken  leg  was  mending,  always  grate 
fully  reported  the  wonders  he  found.  Once,  re 
turning  from  a  trip  on  the  head-waters  of  the 
Tuolumne,  he  came  running  eagerly,  crying: 
"Muir,  I've  found  the  queerest  lake  in  the 
mountains!  It's  high  up  where  nothing  grows; 
and  when  it  is  n't  shiny  you  can't  see  it,  and 
you  walk  right  into  it  as  if  there  was  nothing 
there.  The  first  you  know  of  that  lake  you  are 
in  it,  and  get  tripped  up  by  the  water,  and  hear 
the  splash."  The  waters  of  Illilouette  Creek 
are  nearly  invisible  in  the  autumn;  so  that,  in 
following  the  channel,  jumping  from  boulder 

269 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

to  boulder  after  a  shower,  you  will  frequently 
drag  your  feet  in  the  apparently  surfaceless 
pools. 

Excepting  a  few  low,  warm  slopes,  fountain 
snow  usually  covers  all  the  Yosemite  Park  from 
November  or  December  to  May,  most  of  it  un 
til  June  or  July,  while  on  the  coolest  parts  of  the 
north  slopes  of  the  mountains,  at  a  height  of 
eleven  to  thirteen  thousand  feet,  it  is  perpetual. 
It  seldom  lies  at  a  greater  depth  than  two  or 
three  feet  on  the  lower  margin,  ten  feet  over 
the  middle  forested  region,  or  fifteen  to  twenty 
feet  in  the  shadowy  canons  and  cirques  among 
the  peaks  of  the  Summit,  except  where  it  is 
drifted,  or  piled  in  avalanche  heaps  at  the  foot 
of  long  converging  slopes  to  form  perennial 
fountains. 

The  first  crop  of  snow  crystals  that  whitens 
the  mountains  and  refreshes  the  streams  usu 
ally  falls  in  September  or  October,  in  the  midst 
of  charming  Indian  summer  Weather,  often  while 
the  goldenrods  and  gentians  are  in  their  prune; 
but  these  Indian  summer  snows,  like  some 
of  the  late  ones  that  bury  the  June  gardens, 
vanish  in  a  day  or  two,  and  garden  work  goes 
on  with  accelerated  speed.  The  grand  winter 
storms  that  load  the  mountains  with  endur 
ing  fountain  snow  seldom  set  in  before  the  end 
of  November.  The  fertile  clouds,  descending, 

270 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

glide  about  and  hover  in  brooding  silence,  as  if 
thoughtfully  examining  the  forests  and  streams 
with  reference  to  the  work  before  them;  then 
small  flakes  or  single  crystals  appear,  glinting 
and  swirling  in  zigzags  and  spirals;  and  soon 
the  thronging  feathery  masses  fill  the  sky  and 
make  darkness  like  night,  hurrying  wandering 
mountaineers  to  their  winter  quarters.  The 
first  fall  is  usually  about  two  to  four  feet  deep. 
Then  with  intervals  of  bright  weather,  not  very 
cold,  storm  succeeds  storm,  heaping  snow  on 
snow,  until  from  thirty  to  fifty  or  sixty  feet  has 
fallen;  but  on  account  of  heavy  settling  and 
compacting,  and  the  waste  from  evaporation 
and  melting,  the  depth  in  the  middle  region, 
as  stated  above,  rarely  exceeds  ten  feet.  Evap 
oration  never  wholly  ceases,  even  in  the  cold 
est  weather,  and  the  sunshine  between  storms 
"melts  the  surface  more  or  less.  Waste  from 
melting  also  goes  on  at  the  bottom  from  sum 
mer  heat  stored  in  the  rocks,  as  is  shown  by  the 
rise  of  the  streams  after  the  first  general  storm, 
and  their  steady  sustained  flow  all  winter. 

In  the  deep  sugar-pine  and  silver-fir  woods, 
up  to  a  height  of  eight  thousand  feet,  most  of 
the  snow  lies  where  it  falls,  in  one  smooth  uni 
versal  fountain,  until  set  free  in  the  streams. 
But  in  the  lighter  forests  of  the  two-leaved  pine, 
and  on  the  bleak  slopes  above  the  timber  line, 

271 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

there  is  much  wild  drifting  during  storms  ac 
companied  by  high  winds,  and  for  a  day  or  two 
after  they  have  fallen,  when  the  temperature 
is  low,  and  the  snow  dry  and  dusty.  Then  the 
trees,  bending  in  the  darkening  blast,  roar  like 
feeding  lions;  the  frozen  lakes  are  buried;  so 
also  are  the  streams,  which  now  flow  in  dark 
tunnels,  as  if  another  glacial  period  had  come. 
On  high  ridges,  where  the  winds  have  a  free 
sweep,  magnificent  overcurling  cornices  are 
formed,  which,  with  the  avalanche  piles,  last 
as  fountains  almost  all  summer;  and  when  an 
exceptionally  high  wind  is  blowing  from  the 
north,  the  snow,  rolled,  drifted,  and  ground  to 
dust,  is  driven  up  the  converging  northern 
slopes  of  the  peaks  and  sent  flying  for  miles  in 
the  form  of  bright  wavering  banners,  displayed 
in  wonderful  clearness  and  beauty  against  the 
sky. 

The  greatest  storms,  however,  are  usually 
followed  by  a  deep,  peculiar  silence,  especially 
profound  and  solemn  in  the  forests;  and  the 
noble  trees  stand  hushed  and  motionless,  as  if 
under  a  spell,  until  the  morning  sunbeams  be 
gin  to  sift  through  their  laden  spires.  Then  the 
snow,  shifting  and  falling  from  the  top  branches, 
strikes  the  lower  ones  in  succession,  and  dis 
lodges  bossy  masses  all  the  way  down.  Thus 
each  tree  is  enveloped  in  a  hollow  conical  ava- 

272 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

lanche  of  fairy  fineness,  silvery  white,  irised  on 
the  outside;  while  the  relieved  branches  spring 
up  and  wave  with  startling  effect  in  the  general 
stillness,  as  if  moving  of  their  own  volition. 
These  beautiful  tree  avalanches,  hundreds  of 
which  may  be  seen  falling  at  once  on  fine  morn 
ings  after  storms,  pile  their  snow  in  raised 
rings  around  corresponding  hollows  beneath 
the  trees,  making  the  forest  mantle  somewhat 
irregular,  but  without  greatly  influencing  its 
duration  and  the  flow  of  the  streams. 

The  large  storm  avalanches  are  most  abun 
dant  on  the  Summit  peaks  of  the  range.  They 
descend  the  broad,  steep  slopes,  as  well  as.  nar 
row  gorges  and  couloirs,  with  grand  roaring  and 
booming,  and  glide  in  graceful  curves  out  on 
the  glaciers  they  so  bountifully  feed. 

Down  in  the  main  canons  of  the  middle  re 
gion  broad  masses  are  launched  over  the  brows 
of  cliffs  three  or  four  thousand  feet  high,  which, 
worn  to  dust  by  friction  in  falling  so  far  through 
the  air,  oftentimes  hang  for  a  minute  or  two  in 
front  of  the  tremendous  precipices  like  gauzy 
half-transparent  veils,  gloriously  beautiful 
when  the  sun  is  shining  through  them.  Most 
of  the  canon  avalanches,  however,  flow  in  reg 
ular  channels,  like  the  cascades  of  tributary 
streams.  When  the  snow  first  gives  way  on  the 
upper  slopes  of  their  basins  a  dull  muffled  rush 

273 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  rumble  is  heard,  which,  increasing  with 
heavy  deliberation,  seems  to  draw  rapidly 
nearer  with  appalling  intensity  of  tone.  Pres 
ently  the  wild  flood  comes  in  sight,  bounding 
out  over  bosses  and  sheer  places,  leaping  from 
bench  to  bench,  spreading  and  narrowing  and 
throwing  off  clouds  of  whirling  diamond  dust 
like  a  majestic  foamy  cataract.  Compared  with 
cascades  and  falls,  avalanches  are  short-lived, 
and  the  sharp  clashing  sounds  so  common  in 
dashing  water  are  usually  wanting;  but  in  their 
deep  thunder  tones  and  pearly  purple-tinged 
whiteness,  and  in  dress,  gait,  gestures,  and  gen 
eral  .behavior,  they  are  much  alike. 

Besides  these  common  storm  avalanches 
there  are  two  other  kinds,  the  annual  and  the 
century,  which  still  further  enrich  the  scenery, 
though  their  influence  on  fountains  is  compar 
atively  small.  Annual  avalanches  are  com 
posed  of  heavy  compacted  snow  which  has  been 
subjected  to  frequent  alternations  of  frost  and 
thaw.  They  are  developed  on  canon  and  moun 
tain  sides,  the  greater  number  of  them,  at  ele 
vations  of  from  nine  to  ten  thousand  feet,  where 
the  slopes  are  so  inclined  that  the  dry  snows 
of  winter  accumulate  and  hold  fast  until  the 
spring  thaws  sap  their  foundations  and  make 
them  slippery.  Then  away  in  grand  style  go 
the  ponderous  icy  masses,  adorned  with  crys- 

274 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

talline  spray  without  any  cloudy  snow  dust; 
some  of  the  largest  descending  more  than  a 
mile  with  even,  sustained  energy  and  direct 
ness  like  thunderbolts.  The  grand  century 
avalanches,  that  mow  wide  swaths  through 
the  upper  forests,  occur  on  shady  mountain 
sides  about  ten  to  twelve  thousand  feet  high, 
where,  under  ordinary  conditions,  the  snow 
accumulated  from  winter  to  winter  lies  at  rest 
for  many  years,  allowing  trees  fifty  to  a  hun 
dred  feet  high  to  grow  undisturbed  on  the 
slopes  below  them.  On  their  way  through  the 
forests  they  usually  make  a  clean  sweep,  strip 
ping  off  the  soil  as  well  as  the  trees,  clearing 
paths  two  or  three  hundred  yards  wide  from 
the  timber  line  to  the  glacier  meadows,  and 
piling  the  uprooted  trees,  head  downward,  in 
windrows  along  the  sides  like  lateral  moraines. 
Scars  and  broken  branches  on  the  standing 
trees  bordering  the  gaps  record  the  side  depth 
of  the  overwhelming  flood ;  and  when  we  come 
to  count  the  annual  wood  rings  of  the  uprooted 
trees,  we  learn  that  some  of  these  colossal  ava 
lanches  occur  only  once  in  about  a  century,  or 
even  at  still  wider  intervals. 

Few  mountaineers  go  far  enough,   during 

the  snowy  months,  to  see  many  avalanches, 

and  fewer  still  know  the  thrilling  exhilaration 

of  riding  on  them.   In  all  my  wild  mountain- 

275 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

eering  I  have  enjoyed  only  one  avalanche  ride; 
and  the  start  was  so  sudden,  and  the  end  came 
so  soon,  I  thought  but  little  of  the  danger  that 
goes  with  this  sort  of  travel,  though  one  thinks 
fast  at  such  times.  One  calm,  bright  morning 
in  Yosemite,  after  a  hearty  storm  had  given 
three  or  four  feet  of  fresh  snow  to  the  moun 
tains,  being  eager  to  see  as  many  avalanches 
as  possible,  and  gam  wide  views  of  the  peaks 
and  forests  arrayed  hi  their  new  robes,  before 
the  sunshine  had  tune  to  change  or  rearrange 
them,  I  set  out  early  to  climb  by  a  side  canon 
to  the  top  of  a  commanding  ridge  a  little  over 
three  thousand  feet  above  the  valley.  On 
account  of  the  looseness  of  the  snow  that 
blocked  the  canon  I  knew  the  climb  would  be 
trying,  and  estimated  it  might  require  three 
or  four  hours.  But  it  proved  far  more  difficult 
than  I  had  foreseen.  Most  of  the  way  I  sank 
waist-deep,  hi  some  places  almost  out  of  sight; 
and  after  spending  the  day  to  within  half  an 
hour  of  sundown  in  this  loose,  baffling  snow 
work,  I  was  still  several  hundred  feet  below  the 
summit.  Then  my  hopes  were  reduced  to  get 
ting  up  in  tune  for  the  sunset,  and  a  quick, 
sparkling  home-going  beneath  the  stars.  But 
I  was  not  to  get  top  views  of  any  sort  that  day; 
for  deep  trampling  near  the  canon  head,  where 
the  snow  was  strained,  started  an  avalanche, 

276 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

and  I  was  swished  back  down  to  the  foot  of  the 
canon  as  if  by  enchantment.  The  plodding, 
wallowing  ascent  of  about  a  mile  had  taken  all 
day,  the  undoing  descent  perhaps  a  minute. 
When  the  snow  suddenly  gave  way,  I  instinc 
tively  threw  myself  on  my  back  and  spread 
my  arms,  to  try  to  keep  from  sinking.  Fortu 
nately,  though  the  grade  of  the  canon  was  steep, 
it  was  not  interrupted  by  step  levels  or  preci 
pices  big  enough  to  cause  outbounding  or  free 
plunging.  On  no  part  of  the  rush  was  I  buried. 
I  was  only  moderately  imbedded  on  the  surface 
or  a  little  below  it,  and  covered  with  a  hissing 
back-streaming  veil  of  dusty  snow  particles; 
and  as  the  whole  mass  beneath  or  about  me 
joined  in  the  flight  I  felt  no  friction,  though 
tossed  here  and  there,  and  lurched  from  side 
to  side.  And  when  the  torrent  s wedged  and 
came  to  rest,  I  found  myself  on  the  top  of  the 
crumpled  pile,  without  a  single  bruise  or  scar. 
Hawthorne  says  that  steam  has  spiritualized 
travel,  notwithstanding  the  smoke,  friction, 
smells,  and  clatter  of  boat  and  rail  riding.  This 
flight  in  a  milky  way  of  snow  flowers  was  the 
most  spiritual  of  all  my  travels;  and,  after 
many  years,  the  mere  thought  of  it  is  still  an 
exhilaration. 

In  the  spring,  after  all  the  avalanches  are 
down  and  the  snow  is  melting  fast,  it  is  glorious 

277 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

to  hear  the  streams  sing  out  on  the  mountains. 
Every  fountain  swelling,  countless  rills  hurry 
together  to  the  rivers  at  the  call  of  the  sun,  — 
beginning  to  run  and  sing  soon  after  sunrise, 
increasing  until  toward  sundown,  then  grad 
ually  failing  through  the  cold  frosty  hours  of 
the  night.  Thus  the  volume  of  the  upper 
rivers,  even  in  flood  tune,  is  nearly  doubled 
during  the  day,  rising  and  falling  as  regularly 
as  the  tides  of  the  sea.  At  the  height  of  flood, 
in  the  warmest  June  weather,  they  seem  fairly 
to  shout  for  joy,  and  clash  their  upleaping 
waters  together  like  clapping  of  hands;  racing 
down  the  canons  with  white  manes  flying  in 
glorious  exuberance  of  strength,  compelling 
huge  sleeping  boulders  to  wake  up  and  join  hi 
the  dance  and  song  to  swell  their  chorus. 

Then  the  plants  also  are  in  flood;  the  hidden 
sap  singing  into  leaf  and  flower,  responding  as 
faithfully  to  the  call  of  the  sun  as  the  streams 
from  the  snow,  gathering  along  the  outspread 
roots  like  rills  in  their  channels  on  the  moun 
tains,  rushing  up  the  stems  of  herb  and  tree, 
swirling  in  their  myriad  cells  like  streams  in 
potholes,  spreading  along  the  branches  and 
breaking  into  foamy  bloom,  while  fragrance, 
like  a  finer  music,  rises  and  flows  with  the  winds. 

About  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  spring 
gladness  of  blood  when  the  red  streams  surge 
278 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

and  sing  in  accord  with  the  swelling  plants 
and  rivers,  inclining  animals  and  everybody  to 
travel  in  hurrahing  crowds  like  floods,  while  ex 
hilarating  melody  in  color  and  fragrance,  form 
and  motion,  flows  to  the  heart  through  all  the 
quickening  senses. 

In  early  summer  the  streams  are  in  bright 
prime,  running  crystal  clear,  deep  and  full,  but 
not  overflowing  their  banks,  —  about  as  deep 
through  the  night  as  the  day,  the  variation  so 
marked  in  spring  being  now  too  slight  to  be 
noticed.  Nearly  all  the  weather  is  cloudless 
sunshine,  and  everything  is  at  its  brightest,  — 
lake,  river,  garden,  and  forest,  with  all  their 
warm,  throbbing  life.  Most  of  the  plants  are 
in  full  leaf  and  flower;  the  blessed  ouzels  have 
built  their  mossy  huts,  and  are  now  singing 
their  sweetest  songs  on  spray-sprinkled  ledges 
beside  the  waterfalls. 

In  tranquil,  mellow  autumn,  when  the  year's 
work  is  about  done,  when  the  fruits  are  ripe, 
birds  and  seeds  out  of  their  nests,  and  all  the 
landscape  is  glowing  like  a  benevolent  coun 
tenance  at  rest,  then  the  streams  are  at  their 
lowest  ebb,  —  their  wild  rejoicing  soothed  to 
thoughtful  calm.  All  the  smaller  tributaries 
whose  branches  do  not  reach  back  to  the  per 
ennial  fountains  of  the  Summit  peaks  shrink 
to  whispering,  tinkling  currents.  The  snow  of 

279 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

their  basins  gone,  they  are  now  fed  only  by 
small  moraine  springs,  whose  waters  are  mostly 
evaporated  in  passing  over  warm  pavements, 
and  in  feeling  their  way  from  pool  to  pool 
through  the  midst  of  boulders  and  sand.  Even 
the  mam  streams  are  so  low  they  may  be  easily 
forded,  and  their  grand  falls  and  cascades,  now 
gentle  and  approachable,  have  waned  to  sheets 
and  webs  of  embroidery,  falling  fold  over  fold 
in  new  and  ever-changing  beauty. 

Two  of  the  most  songful  of  the  rivers,  the 
Tuolumne  and  Merced,  water  nearly  all  the 
Park,  spreading  then*  branches  far  and  wide,  like 
broad-headed  oaks;  and  the  highest  branches 
of  each  draw  then*  sources  from  one  and  the 
same  fountain  on  Mount  Lyell,  at  an  elevation 
of  about  thirteen  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
The  crest  of  the  mountain,  against  which  the 
head  of  the  glacier  rests,  is  worn  to  a  thin  blade 
full  of  joints,  through  which  a  part  of  the  glacial 
water  flows  southward,  giving  rise  to  the  high 
est  trickling  affluents  of  the  Merced;  while  the 
main  drainage,  flowing  northward,  gives  rise  to 
those  of  the  Tuolumne.  After  diverging  for  a 
distance  of  ten  or  twelve  miles,  these  twin  rivers 
flow  in  a  general  westerly  direction,  descend 
ing  rapidly  for  the  first  thirty  miles,  and  rush 
ing  in  glorious  apron  cascades  and  falls  from 
one  Yosemite  valley  to  another.  Below  the  Yo- 

280 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

Semites  they  descend  in  gray  rapids  and  swirl 
ing,  swaying  reaches,  through  the  chaparral- 
clad  canons  of  the  foothills  and  across  the 
golden  California  plain,  to  their  confluence  with 
the  San  Joaquin,  where,  after  all  their  long  wan 
derings,  they  are  only  about  ten  miles,  apart. 

The  main  canons  are  from  fifty  to  seventy 
miles  long,  and  from  two  to  four  thousand  feet 
deep,  carved  in  the  solid  flank  of  the  range. 
Though  rough  in  some  places  and  hard  to 
travel,  they  are  the  most  delightful  of  roads, 
leading  through  the  grandest  scenery,  full  of  life 
and  motion,  and  offering  most  telling  lessons  in 
earth  sculpture.  The  walls,  far  from  being  un 
broken,  featureless  cliffs,  seem  like  ranges  of 
separate  mountains,  so  deep  and  varied  is  their 
sculpture;  rising  in  lordly  domes,  towers,  round- 
browed  outstanding  headlands,  and  clustering 
spires,  with  dark,  shadowy  side  canons  between. 
But,  however  wonderful  in  height  and  mass  and 
fineness  of  finish,  no  anomalous  curiosities  are 
presented,  no  "  freaks  of  nature."  All  stand  re 
lated  in  delicate  rhythm,  a  grand  glacial  rock 
song. 

Among  the  most  interesting  and  influential 
of  the  secondary  features  of  canon  scenery  are 
the  great  avalanche  taluses,  that  lean  against 
the  walls  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  two.  In  the 
middle  Yosemite  region  they  are  usually  from 

281 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS    . 

three  to  five  hundred  feet  high,  and  are  made 
up  of  huge,  angular,  well-preserved,  unshifting 
boulders,  overgrown  with  gray  lichens,  trees, 
shrubs,  and  delicate  flowering  plants.  Some  of 
the  largest  of  the  boulders  are  forty  or  fifty  feet 
cube,  weighing  from  five  to  ten  thousand  tons; 
and  where  the  cleavage  joints  of  the  granite  are 
exceptionally  wide  apart  a  few  blocks  may  be 
found  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in  diameter.  These 
wonderful  boulder  piles  are  distributed  through 
out  all  the  canons  of  the  range,  completely  chok 
ing  them  in  some  of  the  narrower  portions,  and 
no  mountaineer  will  be  likely  to  forget  the  sav 
age  roughness  of  the  roads  they  make.  Even 
the  swift,  overbearing  rivers,  accustomed  to 
sweep  everything  out  of  their  way,  are  in  some 
places  bridled  and  held  in  check  by  them. 
Foaming,  roaring,  in  glorious  majesty  of  flood, 
rushing  off  long  rumbling  trains  of  ponderous 
blocks  without  apparent  effort,  they  are  not 
able  to  move  the  largest,  which,  withstanding 
all  assaults  for  centuries,  are  left  at  rest  in  the 
channels  like  islands,  with  gardens  on  their  tops, 
fringed  with  foam  below,  with  flowers  above. 

On  some  points  concerning  the  origin  of  these 
taluses  I  was  long  in  doubt.  Plainly  enough 
they  were  derived  from  the  cliffs  above  them, 
the  size  of  each  talus  being  approximately  meas 
ured  by  a  scar  on  the  wall,  the  rough  angular 

282 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

surface  of  which  contrasts  with  the  rounded, 
glaciated,  unfractured  parts.  I  saw  also  that, 
instead  of  being  slowly  accumulated  material, 
weathered  off,  boulder  by  boulder,  in  the  ordi 
nary  way,  almost  every  talus  had  been  formed 
suddenly,  in  a  single  avalanche,  and  had  not 
been  increased  in  size  during  the  last  three  or 
four  centuries;  for  trees  three  or  four  hundred 
years  old  were  growing  on  them,  some  standing 
at  the  top  close  to  the  wall,  without  a  bruise  or 
broken  branch,  showing  that  scarcely  a  single 
boulder  had  fallen  among  them  since  they  were 
planted.  Furthermore,  all  the  tahises  through 
out  the  range  seemed,  by  the  trees  and  lichens 
growing  on  them,  to  be  of  the  same  age.  All  the 
phenomena  pointed  straight  to  a  grand  ancient 
earthquake.  But  I  left  the  question  open  for 
years,  and  went  on  from  canon  to  canon,  ob 
serving  again  and  again;  measuring  the  heights 
of  taluses  throughout  the  range  on  both  flanks, 
and  the  variations  in  the  angles  of  their  surface 
slopes ;  studying  the  way  their  boulders  were  as 
sorted  and  related  and  brought  to  rest,  and  the 
cleavage  joints  of  the  cliffs  from  whence  they 
were  derived,  cautious  about  making  up  my 
mind.  Only  after  I  had  seen  one  made  did  all 
doubt  as  to  their  formation  vanish. 

In  Yosemite  Valley,  one  morning  about  two 
o'clock,  I  was  aroused  by  an  earthquake;  and 

283 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

though  I  had  never  before  enjoyed  a  storm  of 
this  sort,  the  strange,  wild  thrilling  motion  and 
rumbling  could  not  be  mistaken,  and  I  ran 
out  of  my  cabin,  near  the  Sentinel  Rock,  both 
glad  and  frightened,  shouting,  "A  noble  earth 
quake!"  feeling  sure  I  was  going  to  learn  some 
thing.  The  shocks  were  so  violent  and  varied, 
and  succeeded  one  another  so  closely,  one  had 
to  balance  in  walking  as  if  on  the  deck  of  a  ship 
among  the  waves,  and  it  seemed  impossible  the 
high  cliffs  should  escape  being  shattered.  In 
particular,  I  feared  that  the  sheer-fronted  Sen 
tinel  Rock,  which  rises  to  a  height  of  three  thou 
sand  feet,  would  be  shaken  down,  and  I  took 
shelter  back  of  a  big  pine,  hoping  I  might  be 
protected  from  outbounding  boulders,  should 
any  come  so  far.  I  was  now  convinced  that  an 
earthquake  had  been  the  maker  of  the  taluses, 
and  positive  proof  soon  came.  It  was  a  calm 
moonlight  night,  and  no  sound  was  heard  for 
the  first  minute  or  two  save  a  low  muffled  un 
derground  rumbling  and  a  slight  rustling  of  the 
agitated  trees,  as  if,  in  wrestling  with  the  moun 
tains,  Nature  were  holding  her  breath.  Then, 
suddenly,  out  of  the  strange  silence  and  strange 
motion  there  came  a  tremendous  roar.  The 
Eagle  Rock,  a  short  distance  up  the  valley,  had 
given  way,  and  I  saw  it  falling  in  thousands  of 
the  great  boulders  I  had  been  studying  so  long, 

284 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

pouring  to  the  valley  floor  in  a  free  curve  lumi 
nous  from  friction,  making  a  terribly  sublime 
and  beautiful  spectacle,  —  an  arc  of  fire  fifteen 
hundred  feet  span,  as  true  in  form  and  as  steady 
as  a  rainbow,  in  the  midst  of  the  stupendous 
roaring  rock  storm.  The  sound  was  inconceiv 
ably  deep  and  broad  and  earnest,  as  if  the  whole 
earth,  like  a  living  creature,  had  at  last  found 
a  voice  and  were  calling  to  her  sister  planets. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  if  all  the  thunder  I  ever 
heard  were  condensed  into  one  roar  it  would  not 
equal  this  rock  roar  at  the  birth  of  a  mountain 
talus.  Think,  then,  of  the  roar  that  arose  to 
heaven  when  all  the  thousands  of  ancient  canon 
taluses  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  range  were  simultaneously  given  birth. 

The  main  storm  was  soon  over,  and,  eager  to 
see  the  newborn  talus,  I  ran  up  the  valley  in 
the  moonlight  and  climbed  it  before  the  huge 
blocks,  after  their  wild  fiery  flight,  had  come  to 
complete  rest.  They  were  slowly  settling  into 
their  places,  chafing,  grating  against  one  an 
other,  groaning,  and  whispering;  but  no  motion 
was  visible  except  in  a  stream  of  small  frag 
ments  pattering  down  the  face  of  the  cliff  at  the 
head  of  the  talus.  A  cloud  of  dust  particles, 
the  smallest  of  the  boulders,  floated  out  across 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  valley  and  formed  a 
ceiling  that  lasted  until  after  sunrise;  and  the 
285 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

air  was  loaded  with  the  odor  of  crushed  Doug 
las  spruces,  from  a  grove  that  had  been  mowed 
down  and  mashed  like  weeds. 

Sauntering  about  to  see  what  other  changes 
had  been  made,  I  found  the  Indians  hi  the  mid 
dle  of  the  valley,  terribly  frightened,  of  course, 
fearing  the  angry  spirits  of  the  rocks  were  try 
ing  to  kill  them.  The  few  whites  wintering  in 
the  valley  were  assembled  in  front  of  the  old 
Hutchings  Hotel,  comparing  notes  and  medi 
tating  flight  to  steadier  ground,  seemingly  as 
sorely  frightened  as  the  Indians.  It  is  always 
interesting  to  see  people  in  dead  earnest,  from 
whatever  cause,  and  earthquakes  make  every 
body  earnest.  Shortly  after  sunrise,  a  low  blunt 
muffled  rumbling,  like  distant  thunder,  was 
followed  by  another  series  of  shocks,  which, 
though  not  nearly  so  severe  as  the  first,  made 
the  cliffs  and  domes  tremble  like  jelly,  and  the 
big  pines  and  oaks  thrill  and  swish  and  wave 
their  branches  with  startling  effect.  Then  the 
groups  of  talkers  were  suddenly  hushed,  and 
the  solemnity  on  their  faces  was  sublime.  One 
in  particular  of  these  winter  neighbors,  a  rather 
thoughtful,  speculative  man,  with  whom  I  had 
often  conversed,  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  cata 
clysmic  origin  of  the  valley;  and  I  now  jokingly 
remarked  that  his  wild  tumble-down-and-en- 
gulfment  hypothesis  might  soon  be  proved, 

286 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

since  these  underground  rumblings  and  shak 
ings  might  be  the  forerunners  of  another  Yo- 
semite-making  cataclysm,  which  would  perhaps 
double  the  depth  of  the  valley  by  swallowing 
the  floor,  leaving  the  ends  of  the  wagon  roads 
and  trails  three  or  four  thousand  feet  in  the 
air.  Just  then  came  the  second  series  of  shocks, 
and  it  was  fine  to  see  how  awfully  silent  and 
solemn  he  became.  His  belief  in  the  exist 
ence  of  a  mysterious  abyss,  into  which  the  sus 
pended  floor  of  the  valley  and  all  the  domes  and 
battlements  of  the  walls  might  at  any  moment 
go  roaring  down,  mightily  troubled  him.  To 
cheer  and  tease  him  into  another  view  of  the 
case,  I  said:  "  Come,  cheer  up;  smile  a  little  and 
clap  your  hands,  now  that  kind  Mother  Earth 
is  trotting  us  on  her  knee  to  amuse  us  and  make 
us  good."  But  the  well-meant  joke  seemed  ir 
reverent  and  utterly  failed,  as  if  only  prayerful 
terror  could  rightly  belong  to  the  wild  beauty- 
making  business.  Even  after  all  the  heavier 
shocks  were  over,  I  could  do  nothing  to  reassure 
him.  On  the  contrary,  he  handed  me  the  keys 
of  his  little  store,  and,  with  a  companion  of  like 
mind,  fled  to  the  lowlands.  In  about  a  month 
he  returned;  but  a  sharp  shock  occurred  that 
very  day, .which  sent  him  flying  again. 

The  rocks  trembled  more  or  less  every  day 
for  over  two  months,  and  I  kept  a  bucket  of 

287 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

water  on  my  table  to  learn  what  I  could  of  the 
movements.  The  blunt  thunder-tones  in  the 
depths  of  the  mountains  were  usually  followed 
by  sudden  jarring,  horizontal  thrusts  from  the 
northward,  often  succeeded  by  twisting,  up- 
jolting  movements.  Judging  by  its  effects,  this 
Yosemite,  or  Inyo  earthquake,  as  it  is  some 
times  called,  was  gentle  as  compared  with  the 
one  that  gave  rise  to  the  grand  talus  system  of 
the  range  and  did  so  much  for  the  canon  scen 
ery.  Nature,  usually  so  deliberate  in  her  opera 
tions,  then  created,  as  we  have  seen,  a  new  set 
of  features,  simply  by  giving  the  mountains  a 
shake,  —  changing  not  only  the  high  peaks  and 
cliffs,  but  the  streams.  As  soon  as  these  rock 
avalanches  fell  every  stream  began  to  sing  new 
songs;  for  in  many  places  thousands  of  boul 
ders  were  hurled  into  their  channels,  roughening 
and  half  damming  them,  compelling  the  waters 
to  surge  and  roar  in  rapids  where  before  they 
were  gliding  smoothly.  Some  of  the  streams 
were  completely  dammed,  driftwood,  leaves, 
etc.,  filling  the  interstices  between  the  boulders, 
thus  giving  rise  to  lakes  and  level  reaches;  and 
these  again,  after  being  gradually  filled  in,  to 
smooth  meadows,  through  which  the  streams 
now  silently  meander;  while  at  the  same  time 
some  of  the  taluses  took  the  places  of  old  mead 
ows  and  groves.  Thus  rough  places  were  made 

288 


STREAMS  OF  YOSEMITE  PARK 

smooth,  and  smooth  places  rough.  But  on  the 
whole,  by  what  at  first  sight  seemed  pure  con 
fusion  and  ruin,  the  landscapes  were  enriched; 
for  gradually  every  talus,  however  big  the 
boulders  composing  it,  was  covered  with  groves 
and  gardens,  and  made  a  finely  proportioned 
and  ornamental  base  for  the  sheer  cliffs.  In  this 
beauty  work,  every  boulder  is  prepared  and 
measured  and  put  in  its  place  more  thought 
fully  than  are  the  stones  of  temples.  If  for  a 
moment  you  are  inclined  to  regard  these  ta- 
luses  as  mere  draggled,  chaotic  dumps,  climb  to 
the  top  of  one  of  them,  tie  your  mountain  shoes 
firmly  over  the  instep,  and  with  braced  nerves 
run  down  without  any  haggling,  puttering  hesi 
tation,  boldly  jumping  from  boulder  to  boulder 
with  even  speed.  You  will  then  find  your  feet 
playing  a  tune,  and  quickly  discover  the  music 
and  poetry  of  rock  piles,  —  a  fine  lesson;  and 
all  nature's  wildness  tells  the  same  story. 
Storms  of  every  sort,  torrents,  earthquakes, 
cataclysms,  " convulsions  of  nature,"  etc., 
however  mysterious  and  lawless  at  first  sight 
they  may  seem,  are  only  harmonious  notes  in 
the  song  of  creation,  varied  expressions  of 
God's  love. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  SEQUOIA  AND  GENERAL  GRANT  NATIONAL 
PARKS 

THE  Big  Tree  (Sequoia  gigantea)  is  Nature's 
forest  masterpiece,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  the 
greatest  of  living  things.  It  belongs  to  an  an 
cient  stock,  as  its  remains  in  old  rocks  show, 
and  has  a  strange  air  of  other  days  about  it,  a 
thoroughbred  look  inherited  from  the  long  ago 
—  the  auld  lang  syne  of  trees.  Once  the  genus 
was  common,  and  with  many  species  nourished 
in  the  now  desolate  Arctic  regions,  in  the  interior 
of  North  America,  and  in  Europe,  but  in  long, 
eventful  wanderings  from  climate  to  climate 
only  two  species  have  survived  the  hardships 
they  had  to  encounter,  the  gigantea  and  sem- 
pervirens,  the  former  now  restricted  to  the 
western  slopes  of  the  Sierra,  the  other  to  the 
Coast  Mountains,  and  both  to  California,  ex 
cepting  a  few  groves  of  Redwood  which  extend 
into  Oregon.  The  Pacific  Coast  in  general  is 
the  paradise  of  conifers.  Here  nearly  all  of 
them  are  giants,  and  display  a  beauty  and  mag 
nificence  unknown  elsewhere.  The  climate  is 
mild,  the  ground  never  freezes,  and  moisture 
and  sunshine  abound  a^}  the  year.  Neverthe- 

2S 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

less  it  is  not  easy  to  account  for  the  colossal 
size  of  the  Sequoias.  The  largest  are  about 
three  hundred  feet  high  and  thirty  feet  in  di 
ameter.  Who  of  all  the  dwellers  of  the  plains 
and  prairies  and  fertile  home  forests  of  round- 
headed  oak  and  maple,  hickory  and  elm,  ever 
dreamed  that  earth  could  bear  such  growths, 
—  trees  that  the  familiar  pines  and  firs  seem 
to  know  nothing  about,  lonely,  silent,  serene, 
with  a  physiognomy  almost  godlike;  and  so 
old,  thousands  of  them  still  living  had  already 
counted  their  years  by  tens  of  centuries  when 
Columbus  set  sail  from  Spain,  and  were  in  the 
vigor  of  youth  or  middle  age  when  the  star  led 
the  Chaldean  sages  to  the  infant  Saviour's 
cradle!  As  far  as  man  is  concerned  they  are 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever,  em 
blems  of  permanence. 

No  description  can  give  any  adequate  idea 
of  their  singular  majesty,  much  less  of  their 
beauty.  Excepting  the  sugar-pine,  most  of 
their  neighbors  with  pointed  tops  seem  to  be 
forever  shouting  Excelsior,  while  the  Big  Tree, 
though  soaring  above  them  all,  seems  satisfied, 
its  rounded  head,  poised  lightly  as  a  cloud,  giv 
ing  no  impression  of  trying  to  go  higher.  Only 
in  youth  does  it  show  like  other  conifers  a  heav 
enward  yearning,  keenly  aspiring  with  a  long 
quick-growing  top.  Indeed  the  whole  tree  for 

291 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  first  century  or  two,  or  until  a  hundred  to 
a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  is  arrowhead  hi 
form,  and,  compared  with  the  solemn  rigidity 
of  age,  is  as  sensitive  to  the  wind  as  a  squir 
rel  tail.  The  lower  branches  are  gradually 
dropped  as  it  grows  older,  and  the  upper  ones 
thinned  out  until  comparatively  few  are  left. 
These,  however,  are  developed  to  great  size, 
divide  again  and  again,  and  terminate  in  bossy 
rounded  masses  of  leafy  branchlets,  while  the 
head  becomes  dome-shaped.  Then  poised  in 
fullness  of  strength  and  beauty,  stern  and  sol 
emn  in  mien,  it  glows  with  eager,  enthusiastic 
life,  quivering  to  the  tip  of  every  leaf  and 
branch  and  far-reaching  root,  calm  as  a  gran 
ite  dome,  the  first  to  feel  the  touch  of  the  rosy 
beams  of  the  morning,  the  last  to  bid  the  sun 
good-night. 

Perfect  specimens,  unhurt  by  running  fires  or 
lightning,  are  singularly  regular  and  symmetri 
cal  in  general  form,  though  not  at  all  conven 
tional,  showing  infinite  variety  hi  sure  unity 
and  harmony  of  plan.  The  immensely  strong, 
stately  shafts,  with  rich  purplish  brown  bark, 
are  free  of  limbs  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  or 
so,  though  dense  tufts  of  sprays  occur  here  and 
there,  producing  an  ornamental  effect,  while 
long  parallel  furrows  give  a  fluted  columnar 
appearance.  It  shoots  forth  its  limbs  with 

292 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

equal  boldness  in  every*direction,  showing  no 
weather  side.  On  the  old  trees  the  main  branches 
are  crooked  and  rugged,  and  strike  rigidly 
outward  mostly  at  right  angles  from  the  trunk, 
but  there  is  always  a  certain  measured  restraint 
in  their  reach  which  keeps  them  within  bounds. 
No  other  Sierra  tree  has  foliage  so  densely 
massed  or  outline  so  finely,  firmly  drawn  and 
so  obediently  subordinate  to  an  ideal  type.  A 
particularly  knotty,  angular,  ungovernable- 
looking  branch,  five  to  eight  feet  in  diameter 
and  perhaps  a  thousand  years  old,  may  occa 
sionally  be  seen  pushing  out  from  the  trunk  as 
if  determined  to  break  across  the  bounds  of  the 
regular  curve,  but  like  all  the  others,  as  soon 
as  the  general  outline  is  approached  the  huge 
limb  dissolves  into  massy  bosses  of  branchlets 
and  sprays,  as  if  the  tree  were  growing  beneath 
an  invisible  bell  glass  against  the  sides  of  which 
the  branches  were  moulded,  while  many  small, 
varied  departures  from  the  ideal  form  give  the 
impression  of  freedom  to  grow  as  they  like. 

Except  in  picturesque  old  age,  after  being 
struck  by  lightning  and  broken  by  a  thousand 
snowstorms,  this  regularity  of  form  is  one  of 
the  Big  Tree's  most  distinguishing  character 
istics.  Another  is  the  simple  sculptural  beauty 
of  the  trunk  and  its  great  thickness  as  compared 
with  its  height  and  the  width  of  the  branches, 

293 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

many  of  them  being  from  eight  to  ten  feet  in 
diameter  at  a  height  of  two  hundred  feet  from 
the  ground,  and  seeming  more  like  finely  mod 
eled  and  sculptured  architectural  columns  than 
the.  stems  of  trees,  while  the  great  strong  limbs 
are  like  rafters  supporting  the  magnificent 
dome  head. 

The  root  system  corresponds  in  magnitude 
with  the  other  dimensions  of  the  tree,  forming 
a  flat  far-reaching  spongy  network  two  hun 
dred  feet  or  more  in  width  without  any  tap 
root,  and  the  instep  is  so  grand  and  fine,  so  sug 
gestive  of  endless  strength,  it  is  long  ere  the 
eye  is  released  to  look  above  it.  The  natural 
swell  of  the  roots,  though  at  first  sight  exces 
sive,  gives  rise  to  buttresses  no  greater  than  are 
required  for  beauty  as  well  as  strength,  as  at 
once  appears  when  you  stand  back  far  enough 
to  see  the  whole  tree  in  its  true  proportions. 
The  fineness  of  the  taper  of  the  trunk  is  shown 
by  its  thickness  at  great  heights  —  a  diameter 
of  ten  feet  at  a  height  of  two  hundred  being,  as 
we  have  seen,  not  uncommon.  Indeed  the  boles 
of  but  few  trees  hold  their  thickness  as  well  as 
Sequoia.  Resolute,  consummate,  determined 
in  form,  always  beheld  with  wondering  ad 
miration,  the  Big  Tree  always  seems  unfamiliar, 
standing  alone,  unrelated,  with  peculiar  physi 
ognomy,  awfully  solemn  and  earnest.  Never- 

294 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

theless,  there  is  nothing  alien  in  its  looks.  The 
madrona,  clad  in  thin,  smooth,  red  and  yellow 
bark  and  big  glossy  leaves,  seems,  in  the  dark 
coniferous  forests  of  Washington  and  Vancou 
ver  Island,  like  some  lost  wanderer  from  the 
magnolia  groves  of  the  South,  while  the  se 
quoia,  with  all  its  strangeness,  seems  more  at 
home  than  any  of  its  neighbors,  holding  the 
best  right  to  the  ground  as  the  oldest,  strongest 
inhabitant.  One  soon  becomes  acquainted 
with  new  species  of  pine  and  fir  and  spruce  as 
with  friendly  people,  shaking  their  outstretched 
branches  like  shaking  hands,  and  fondling  their 
beautiful  little  ones;  while  the  venerable  aborig 
inal  sequoia,  ancient  of  other  days,  keeps  you 
at  a  distance,  taking  no  notice  of  you,  speaking 
only  to  the  winds,  thinking  only  of  the  sky, 
looking  as  strange  in  aspect  and  behavior 
among  the  neighboring  trees  as  would  the  mas 
todon  or  hairy  elephant  among  the  homely 
bears  and  deer.  Only  the  Sierra  juniper  is  at  all 
like  it,  standing  rigid  and  unconquerable  on 
glacial  pavements  for  thousands  of  years,  grim, 
rusty,  silent,  uncommunicative,  with  an  air 
of  antiquity  about  as  pronounced  as  that  so 
characteristic  of  sequoia. 

The  bark  of  full  grown  trees  is  from  one  to 
two  feet  thick,  rich  cinnamon  brown,  purplish 
on  young  trees  and  shady  parts  of  the  old,  f  orm- 
295 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  magnificent  masses  of  color  with  the  under 
brush  and  beds  of  flowers.  Toward  the  end  of 
winter  the  trees  themselves  bloom  while  the 
snow  is  still  eight  or  ten  feet  deep.  The  pistil 
late  flowers  are  about  three  eighths  of  an  inch 
long,  pale  green,  and  grow  in  countless  thou 
sands  on  the  ends  of  the  sprays.  The  stami- 
nate  are  still  more  abundant,  pale  yellow,  a 
fourth  of  an  inch  long;  and  when  the  golden 
pollen  is  ripe  they  color  the  whole  tree  and  dust 
the  air  and  the  ground  far  and  near. 

The  cones  are  bright  grass-green  in  color, 
about  two  and  a  half  inches  long,  one  and  a  half 
wide,  and  are  made  up  of  thirty  or  forty  strong, 
closely  packed,  rhomboidal  scales  with  four  to 
eight  seeds  at  the  base  of  each.  The  seeds  are 
extremely  small  and  light,  being  only  from  an 
eighth  to  a  fourth  of  an  inch  long  and  wide,  in 
cluding  a  filmy  surrounding  wing,  which  causes 
them  to  glint  and  waver  in  falling  and  enables 
the  wind  to  carry  them  considerable  distances 
from  the  tree. 

The  faint  lisp  of  snowflakes  as  they  alight 
is  one  of  the  smallest  sounds  mortal  can  hear. 
The  sound  of  falling  sequoia  seeds,  even  when 
they  happen  to  strike  on  flat  leaves  or  flakes  of 
bark,  is  about  as  faint.  Very  different  is  the 
bumping  and  thudding  of  the  falling  cones. 
Most  of  them  are  cut  off  by  the  Douglas  squir- 

296 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

rel  and  stored  for  the  sake  of  the  seeds,  small 
as  they  are.  In  the  calm  Indian  summer  these 
busy  harvesters  with  ivory  sickles  go  to  work 
early  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  is 
over,  and  nearly  all  day  the  ripe  cones  fall  in  a 
steady  pattering,  bumping  shower.  Unless  har 
vested  in  this  way  they  discharge  their  seeds 
and  remain  on  the  trees  for  many  years.  In 
fruitful  seasons  the  trees  are  fairly  laden.  On 
two  small  specimen  branches  one  and  a  half 
and  two  inches  in  diameter  I  counted  four  hun 
dred  and  eighty  cones.  No  other  California 
conifer  produces  nearly  so  many  seeds,  except 
ing  perhaps  its  relative,  the  redwood  of  the 
Coast  Mountains.  Millions  are  ripened  annu 
ally  by  a  single  tree,  and  the  product  of  one  of 
the  main  groves  hi  a  fruitful  year  would  suffice 
to  plant  all  the  mountain  ranges  of  the  world. 

The  dense  tufted  sprays  make  snug  nesting 
places  for  birds,  and  in  some  of  the  loftiest, 
leanest  towers  of  verdure  thousands  of  genera 
tions  have  been  reared,  the  great  solemn  trees 
shedding  off  flocks  of  merry  singers  every  year 
from  nests,  like  the  flocks  of  winged  seeds  from 
the  cones. 

The  Big  Tree  keeps  its  youth  far  longer  than 
any  of  its  neighbors.  Most  silver  firs  are  old  in 
their  second  or  third  century,  pines  in  their 
fourth  or  fifth,  while  the  Big  Tree  growing  be- 

297 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

side  them  is  still  in  the  bloom  of  its  youth,  juve 
nile  in  every  feature  at  the  age  of  old  pines,  and 
cannot  be  said  to  attain  anything  like  prime 
size  and  beauty  before  its  fifteen  hundredth 
year,  or  under  favorable  circumstances  be 
come  old  before  its  three  thousandth.  Many, 
no  doubt,  are  much  older  than  this.  On  one  of 
the  Kings  River  giants,  thirty-five  feet  and 
eight  inches  hi  diameter  exclusive  of  bark,  I 
counted  upwards  of  four  thousand  annual 
wood-rings,  in  which  there  was  no  trace  of 
decay  after  all  these  centuries  of  mountain 
weather.  There  is  no  absolute  limit  to  the 
existence  of  any  tree.  Their  death  is  due  to  ac 
cidents,  not,  as  of  animals,  to  the  wearing  out 
of  organs.  Only  the  leaves  die  of  old  age,  their 
fall  is  foretold  in  their  structure;  but  the  leaves 
are  renewed  every  year  and  so  also  are  the  other 
essential  organs  —  wood,  roots,  bark,  buds. 
Most  of  the  Sierra  trees  die  of  disease.  Thus 
the  magnificent  silver  firs  are  devoured  by 
fungi,  and  comparatively  few  of  them  live  to 
see  their  three  hundredth  birth  year.  But  noth 
ing  hurts  the  Big  Tree.  I  never  saw  one  that 
was  sick  or  showed  the  slightest  sign  of  decay. 
It  lives  on  through  indefinite  thousands  of 
years  until  burned,  blown  down,  undermined, 
or  shattered  by  some  tremendous  lightning 
stroke.  No  ordinary  bolt  ever  seriously  hurts 

298 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

sequoia.  In  all  my  walks  I  have  seen  only  one 
that  was  thus  killed  outright.  Lightning, 
though  rare  in  the  California  lowlands,  is  com 
mon  on  the  Sierra.  Almost  every  day  in  June 
and  July  small  thunderstorms  refresh  the  main 
forest  belt.  Clouds  like  snowy  mountains  of 
marvelous  beauty  grow  rapidly  in  the  calm  sky 
about  midday  and  cast  cooling  shadows  and 
showers  that  seldom  last  more  than  an  hour. 
Nevertheless  these  brief,  kind  storms  wound 
or  kill  a  good  many  trees.  I  have  seen  silver 
firs  two  hundred  feet  high  split  into  long  peeled 
rails  and  slivers  down  to  the  roots,  leaving  not 
even  a  stump,  the  rails  radiating  like  the  spokes 
of  a  wheel  from  a  hole  in  the  ground  where  the 
tree  stood.  But  the  sequoia,  instead  of  being 
split  and  slivered,  usually  has  forty  or  fifty  feet 
of  its  brash  knotty  top  smashed  off  in  short 
chunks  about  the  size  of  cord-wood,  the  beau 
tiful  rosy  red  ruins  covering  the  ground  in  a 
circle  a  hundred  feet  wide  or  more.  I  never  saw 
any  that  had  been  cut  down  to  the  ground  or 
even  to  below  the  branches  except  one  in  the 
Stanislaus  Grove,  about  twelve  feet  in  diam 
eter,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  smashed  to 
fragments,  leaving  only  a  leafless  stump  about 
seventy-five  feet  high.  It  is  a  curious  fact 
that  all  the  very  old  sequoias  have  lost  their 
heads  by  lightning.  "All  things  come  to  him 
299 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

who  waits."  But  of  all  living  things  sequoia  is 
perhaps  the  only  one  able  to  wait  long  enough 
to  make  sure  of  being  struck  by  lightning. 
Thousands  of  years  it  stands  ready  and  waiting, 
offering  its  head  to  every  passing  cloud  as  if 
inviting  its  fate,  praying  for  heaven's  fire  as  a 
blessing;  and  when  at  last  the  old  head  is  off, 
another  of  the  same  shape  immediately  begins 
to  grow  on.  Every  bud  and  branch  seems  ex 
cited,  like  bees  that  have  lost  their  queen,  and 
tries  hard  to  repair  the  damage.  Branches  that 
for  many  centuries  have  been  growing  out 
horizontally  at  once  turn  upward  and  all  their 
branchlets  arrange  themselves  with  reference 
to  a  new  top  of  the  same  peculiar  curve  as  the 
old  one.  Even  the  small  subordinate  branches 
halfway  down  the  trunk  do  their  best  to  push 
up  to  the  top  and  help  in  this  curious  head- 
making. 

The  great  age  of  these  noble  trees  is  even 
more  wonderful  than  their  huge  size,  standing 
bravely  up,  millennium  in,  millennium  out,  to 
all  that  fortune  may  bring  them,  triumphant 
over  tempest  and  fire  and  tune,  fruitful  and 
beautiful,  giving  food  and  shelter  to  multitudes 
of  small  fleeting  creatures  dependent  on  their 
bounty.  Other  trees  may  claim  to  be  about  as 
large  or  as  old:  Australian  gums,  Senegal  bao 
babs,  Mexican  taxodiums,  English  yews,  and 

300 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

venerable  Lebanon  cedars,  trees  of  renown, 
some  of  which  are  from  ten  to  thirty  feet  in  di 
ameter.  We  read  of  oaks  that  are  supposed  to 
have  existed  ever  since  the  creation,  but  strange 
to  say  I  can  find  no  definite  accounts  of  the  age 
of  any  of  these  trees,  but  only  estimates  based 
on  tradition  and  assumed  average  rates  of 
growth.  No  other  known  tree  approaches  the 
sequoia  in  grandeur,  height  and  thickness  be 
ing  considered,  and  none  as  far  as  I  know  has 
looked  down  on  so  many  centuries  or  opens 
such  impressive  and  suggestive  views  into  his 
tory.  The  majestic  monument  of  the  Kings 
River  Forest  is,  as  we  have  seen,  fully  four  thou 
sand  years  old,  and  measuring  the  rings  of  an 
nual  growth  we  find  it  was  no  less  than  twenty- 
seven  feet  in  diameter  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Christian  era,  while  many  observations  lead 
me  to  expect  the  discovery  of  others  ten  or 
twenty  centuries  older.  As  to  those  of  moder 
ate  age,  there  are  thousands,  mere  youths  as 
yet,  that  — 

"Saw  the  light  that  shone 

On  Mahomet's  uplifted  crescent, 
On  many  a  royal  gilded  throne 
And  deed  forgotten  in  the  present, 

.  .  .  saw  the  age  of  sacred  trees 
And  Druid  groves  and  mystic  larches, 
And  saw  from  forest  domes  like  these 
The  builder  bring  his  Gothic  arches." 

301 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Great  trees  and  groves  used  to  be  venerated 
as  sacred  monuments  and  halls  of  council  and 
worship.  But  soon  after  the  discovery  of  the 
Calaveras  Grove  one  of  the  grandest  trees  was 
cut  down  for  the  sake  of  a  stump !  The  labori 
ous  vandals  had  seen  "the  biggest  tree  in  the 
world,"  then,  forsooth,  they  must  try  to  see  the 
biggest  stump  and  dance  on  it. 

The  growth  in  height  for  the  first  two  centu 
ries  is  usually  at  the  rate  of  eight  to  ten  inches  a 
year.  Of  course  all  very  large  trees  are  old,  but 
those  equal  in  size  may  vary  greatly  in  age  on 
account  of  variations  in  soil,  closeness  or  open 
ness  of  growth,  etc.  Thus  a  tree  about  ten  feet 
in  diameter  that  grew  on  the  side  of  a  meadow 
was,  according  to  my  own  count  of  the  wood- 
rings,  only  two  hundred  and  fifty-nine  years 
old  at  the  time  it  was  felled,  while  another  in 
the  same  grove,  of  almost  exactly  the  same  size 
but  less  favorably  situated,  was  fourteen  hun 
dred  and  forty  years  old.  The  Calaveras  tree 
cut  for  a  dance  floor  was  twenty-four  feet  in 
diameter  and  only  thirteen  hundred  years  old, 
another  about  the  same  size  was  a  thousand 
years  older. 

The  following  sequoia  notes  and  measure 
ments  are  copied  from  my  notebooks:  — 


302 


Diameter  Height  in  Age 

Feet            Inches  feet  Years 

0      1  3-4  10  7 

05  24  20 

05  25  41 

06  25  66 
06  28  1-2  39 

08  25  29 
0     11  45  71 
10  60  71 
3      2  156  260 

6  0  192  240 

7  3  195  339 
7     3  255  506 
7      6  240  493 
7      7  207  424 

9  0  243  259 
9      3  222  280 

10      6  1440 

12  1825* 

15  2150t 

24  1300 

25  2300 
35              8  inside  bark               over  4000 

*  6  feet  in  diameter  at  height  of  200  feet, 
t  7  feet  in  diameter  at  height  of  200  feet. 


Little,  however,  is  to  be  learned  in  confused, 
hurried  tourist  trips,  spending  only  a  poor 
noisy  hour  in  a  branded  grove  with  a  guide. 
You  should  go  looking  and  listening  alone  on 
long  walks  through  the  wild  forests  and  groves 
in  all  the  seasons  of  the  year.  In  the  spring  the 
winds  are  balmy  and  sweet,  blowing  up  and 
down  over  great  beds  of  chaparral  and  through 
303 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  woods  now  rich  in  softening  balsam  and 
rosin  and  the  scent  of  steaming  earth.  The  sky 
is  mostly  sunshine,  oftentimes  tempered  by 
magnificent  clouds,  the  breath  of  the  sea  built 
up  into  new  mountain  ranges,  warm  during 
the  day,  cool  at  night,  good  flower-opening 
weather.  The  young  cones  of  the  Big  Trees  are 
showing  in  clusters,  their  flower  time  already 
past,  and  here  and  there  you  may  see  the 
sprouting  of  their  tiny  seeds  of  the  previous 
autumn,  taking  their  first  feeble  hold  of  the 
ground  and  unpacking  their  tender  whorls  of 
cotyledon  leaves.  Then  you  will  naturally  be 
led  on  to  consider  their  wonderful  growth  up 
and  up  through  the  mountain  weather,  now 
buried  in  snow  bent  and  crinkled,  now  straight 
ening  in  summer  sunshine  like  uncoiling  ferns, 
shooting  eagerly  aloft  in  youth's  joyful  prime, 
and  towering  serene  and  satisfied  through 
countless  years  of  calm  and  storm,  the  greatest 
of  plants  and  all  but  immortal. 

Under  the  huge  trees  up  come  the  small  plant 
people,  putting  forth  fresh  leaves  and  blossom 
ing  in  such  profusion  that  the  hills  and  valleys 
would  still  seem  gloriously  rich  and  glad  were 
all  the  grand  trees  away.  By  the  side  of  melting 
snowbanks  rise  the  crimson  sarcodes,  round- 
topped  and  massive  as  the  sequoias  them 
selves,  and  beds  of  blue  violets  and  larger  yel- 

304 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

low  ones  with  leaves  curiously  lobed;  azalea 
and  saxifrage,  daisies  and  lilies  on  the  mossy 
banks  of  the  streams;  and  a  little  way  back  of 
them,  beneath  the  trees  and  on  sunny  spots  on 
the  hills  around  the  groves,  wild  rose  and  rubus, 
spirsea  and  ribes,  mitella,  tiarella,  campanula, 
monardella,  forget-me-not,  etc.,  many  of  them 
as  worthy  of  lore  immortality  as  the  famous 
Scotch  daisy,  wanting  only  a  Burns  to  sing 
them  home  to  all  hearts. 

In  the  midst  of  this  glad  plant  work  the  birds 
are  busy  nesting,  some  singing  at  their  work, 
some  silent,  others,  especially  the  big  pileated 
woodpeckers,  about  as  noisy  as  backwoodsmen 
building  their  cabins.  Then  every  bower  in  the 
groves  is  a  bridal  bower,  the  winds  murmur 
softly  overhead,  the  streams  sing  with  the  birds, 
while  from  far-off  waterfalls  and  thunder 
clouds  come  deep  rolling  organ  notes. 

In  summer  the  days  go  by  in  almost  constant 
brightness,  cloudless  sunshine  pouring  over  the 
forest  roof,  while  in  the  shady  depths  there  is 
the  subdued  light  of  perpetual  morning.  The 
new  leaves  and  cones  are  growing  fast  and 
make  a  grand  show,  seeds  are  ripening,  young 
birds  are  learning  to  fly,  and  myriads  of  insects 
glad  as  birds  keep  the  air  whirling,  joy  in  every 
wing-beat,  their  humming  and  singing  blending 
with  the  gentle  ah-ing  of  the  winds;  while  at 

305 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

evening  every  thicket  and  grove  is  enchanted 
by  the  tranquil  chirping  of  the  blessed  hylas, 
the  sweetest  and  most  peaceful  of  sounds,  tell 
ing  the  very  heart-joy  of  earth  as  it  rolls 
through  the  heavens. 

In  the  autumn  the  sighing  of  the  winds  is 
softer  than  ever,  the  gentle  ah-ah-ing  filling  the 
sky  with  a  fine  universal  mist  of  music,  the 
birds  have  little  to  say,  and  there  is  no  ap 
preciable  stir  or  rustling  among  the  trees  save 
that  caused  by  the  harvesting  squirrels.  Most 
of  the  seeds  are  ripe  and  away,  those  of  the 
trees  mottling  the  sunny  air,  glinting,  glancing 
through  the  midst  of  the  merry  insect  people, 
rocks  and  trees,  everything  alike  drenched  in 
gold  light,  heaven's  colors  coming  down  to  the 
meadows  and  groves,  making  every  leaf  a  ro 
mance,  air,  earth,  and  water  in  peace  beyond 
thought,  the  great  brooding  days  opening  and 
closing  in  divine  psalms  of  color. 

Winter  comes  suddenly,  arrayed  in  storms, 
though  to  mountaineers  silky  streamers  on 
the  peaks  and  the  tones  of  the  wind  give  suffi 
cient  warning.  You  hear  strange  whisperings 
among  the  tree-tops,  as  if  the  giants  were  tak 
ing  counsel  together.  One  after  another,  nod 
ding  and  swaying,  calling  and  replying,  spreads 
the  news,  until  all  with  one  accord  break  forth 
into  glorious  song,  welcoming  the  first  grand 

306 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

snowstorm  of  the  year,  and  looming  up  in  the 
dim  clouds  and  snowdrifts  like  lighthouse  tow 
ers  in  flying  scud  and  spray.  Studying  the  be 
havior  of  the  giants  from  some  friendly  shelter, 
you  will  see  that  even  in  the  glow  of  their  wild 
est  enthusiasm,  when  the  storm  roars  loudest, 
they  never  lose  their  god-like  composure,  never 
toss  their  arms  or  bow  or  wave  like  the  pines, 
but  only  slowly,  solemnly  nod  and  sway,  stand 
ing  erect,  making  no  sign  of  strife,  none  of  rest, 
neither  in  alliance  nor  at  war  with  the  winds, 
too  calmly,  unconsciously  noble  and  strong  to 
strive  with  or  bid  defiance  to  anything.  Owing 
to  the  density  of  the  leafy  branchlets  and  great 
breadth  of  head  the  Big  Tree  carries  a  much 
heavier  load  of  snow  than  any  of  its  neighbors, 
and  after  a  storm,  when  the  sky  clears,  the 
laden  trees  are  a  glorious  spectacle,  worth  any 
amount  of  cold  camping  to  see.  Every  bossy 
limb  and  crown  is  solid  white,  and  the  im 
mense  height  of  "the  giants  becomes  visible  as 
the  eye  travels  the  white  steps  of  the  colossal 
tower,  each  relieved  by  a  mass  of  blue  shadow. 
In  midwinter  the  forest  depths  are  as  fresh 
and  pure  as  the  crevasses  and  caves  of  glaciers. 
Grouse,  nuthatches,  a  few  woodpeckers,  and 
other  hardy  birds  dwell  in  the  groves  all  winter, 
and  the  squirrels  may  be  seen  every  clear  day 
frisking  about,  lively  as  ever,  tunneling  to  their 

307 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

stores,  never  coming  up  empty-mouthed,  div 
ing  in  the  loose  snow  about  as  quickly  as  ducks 
in  water,  while  storms  and  sunshine  sing  to 
each  other. 

One  of  the  noblest  and  most  beautiful  of  the 
late  winter  sights  is  the  blossoming  of  the  Big 
Trees  like  gigantic  goldenrods  and  the  sowing 
of  their  pollen  over  all  the  forest  and  the  snow- 
covered  ground  —  a  most  glorious  view  of 
Nature's  immortal  virility  and  flower-love. 

One  of  my  own  best  excursions  among  the 
sequoias  was  made  hi  the  autumn  of  1875, 
when  I  explored  the  then  unknown  or  little 
known  sequoia  region  south  of  the  Mariposa 
Grove  for  comprehensive  views  of  the  belt,  and 
to  learn  what  I  could  of  the  peculiar  distribu 
tion  of  the  species  and  its  history  in  general. 
In  particular  I  was  anxious  to  try  to  find  out 
whether  it  had  ever  been  more  widely  distrib 
uted  since  the  glacial  period ;  what  conditions 
favorable  or  otherwise  were  affecting  it;  what 
were  its  relations  to  climate,  topography,  soil, 
and  the  other  trees  growing  with  it,  etc.;  and 
whether,  as  was  generally  supposed,  the  spe 
cies  was  nearing  extinction.  I  was  already  ac 
quainted  in  a  general  way  with  the  northern 
groves,  but  excepting  some  passing  glimpses 
gained  on  excursions  into  the  high  Sierra  about 
the  head-waters  of  Kings  and  Kern  rivers  I 

308 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

had  seen  nothing  of  the  south  end  of  the 
belt. 

•  Nearly  all  my  mountaineering  has  been 
done  on  foot,  carrying  as  little  as  possible,  de 
pending  on  camp-fires  for  warmth,  that  so  I 
might  be  light  and  free  to  go  wherever  my  stud 
ies  might  lead.  On  this  sequoia  trip,  which 
promised  to  be  long,  I  was  persuaded  to  take  a 
small  wild  mule  with  me  to  carry  provisions 
and  a  pair  of  blankets.  The  friendly  owner  of 
the  animal,  having  noticed  that  I  sometimes 
looked  tired  when  I  came  down  from  the  peaks 
to  replenish  my  bread  sack,  assured  me  that  his 
" little  Brownie  mule"  was  just  what  I  wanted, 
tough  as  a  knot,  perfectly  untirable,  low  and 
narrow,  just  right  for  squeezing  through  brush, 
able  to  climb  like  a  chipmunk,  jump  from 
boulder  to  boulder  like  a  wild  sheep,  and  go 
anywhere  a  man  could  go.  But  tough  as  he  was 
and  accomplished  as  a  cumber,  many  a  tune  in 
the  course  of  our  journey  when  he  was  jaded 
and  hungry,  wedged  fast  in  rocks  or  struggling 
in  chaparral  like  a  fly  in  a  spiderweb,  his  trou 
bles  were  sad  to  see,  and  I  wished  he  would 
leave  me  and  find  his  way  home  alone. 

We  set  out  from  Yosemite  about  the  end  of 
August,  and  our  first  camp  was  made  in  the 
well-known  Mariposa  Grove.  Here  and  in  the 
adjacent  pine  woods  I  spent  nearly  a  week, 

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OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

carefully  examining  the  boundaries  of  the  grove 
for  traces  of  its  greater  extension  without  find 
ing  any.  Then  I  struck  out  into  the  majestic 
trackless  forest  to  the  southeastward,  hoping 
to  find  new  groves  or  traces  of  old  ones  in  the 
dense  silver  fir  and  pine  woods  about  the  head 
of  Big  Creek,  where  soil  and  climate  seemed 
most  favorable  to  their  growth,  but  not  a  single 
tree  or  old  monument  of  any  sort  came  to  light 
until  I  climbed  the  high  rock  called  Wamellow 
by  the  Indians.  Here  I  obtained  telling  views 
of  the  fertile  forest-filled  basin  of  the  upper 
Fresno.  Innumerable  spires  of  the  noble  yellow 
pine  were  displayed  rising  above  one  another 
on  the  braided  slopes,  and  yet  nobler  sugar 
pines  with  superb  arms  outstretched  in  the  rich 
autumn  light,  while  away  toward  the  south 
west,  on  the  verge  of  the  glowing  horizon,  I  dis 
covered  the  majestic  dome-like  crowns  of  Big 
Trees  towering  high  over  all,  singly  and  in  close 
grove  congregations.  There  is  something  won 
derfully  attractive  hi  this  king  tree,  even  when 
beheld  from  afar,  that  draws  us  to  it  with  in 
describable  enthusiasm;  its  superior  height  and 
massive  smoothly  rounded  outlines  proclaiming 
its  character  in  any  company;  and  when  one 
of  the  oldest  attains  full  stature  on  some  com 
manding  ridge  it  seems  the  very  god  of  the 
woods.  I  ran  back  to  camp,  packed  Brownie, 
310 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

steered  over  the  divide  and  down  into  the  heart 
of  the  Fresno  Grove.  Then  choosing  a  camp 
on  the  side  of  a  brook  where  the  grass  was  good, 
I  made  a  cup  of  tea,  and  set  off  free  among  the 
brown  giants,  glorying  in  the  abundance  of  new 
work  about  me.  One  of  the  first  special  things 
that  caught  my  attention  was  an  extensive 
landslip.  The  ground  on  the  side  of  a  stream 
had  given  way  to  a  depth  of  about  fifty  feet  and 
with  all  its  trees  had  been  launched  into  the 
bottom  of  the  stream  ravine.  Most  of  the  trees 
—  pines,  firs,  incense  cedar,  and  sequoia  — 
were  still  standing  erect  and  uninjured,  as  if  un 
conscious  that  anything  out  of  the  common 
had  happened.  Tracing  the  ravine  alongside 
the  avalanche,  I  saw  many  trees  whose  roots 
had  been  laid  bare,  and  in  one  instance  discov 
ered  a  sequoia  about  fifteen  feet  in  diameter 
growing  above  an  old  prostrate  trunk  that 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  former  generation.  This 
slip  had  occurred  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  and 
I  was  glad  to  find  that  not  only  were  most  of  the 
Big  Trees  uninjured,  but  that  many  companies 
of  hopeful  seedlings  and  saplings  were  grow 
ing  confidently  on  the  fresh  soil  along  the  bro 
ken  front  of  the  avalanche.  These  young  trees 
were  already  eight  or  ten  feet  high,  and  were 
shooting  up  vigorously,  as  if  sure  of  eternal  life, 
though  young  pines,  firs,  and  libocedrus  were 

311 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

running  a  race  with  them  for  the  sunshine  with 
an  even  start.  Farther  down  the  ravine  I 
counted  five  hundred  and  thirty-six  promising 
young  sequoias  on  a  bed  of  rough  bouldery  soil 
not  exceeding  two  acres  in  extent. 

The  Fresno  Big  Trees  covered  an  area  of 
about  four  square  miles,  and  while  wandering 
about  surveying  the  boundaries  of  the  grove, 
anxious  to  see  every  tree,  I  came  suddenly  on  a 
handsome  log  cabin,  richly  embowered  and  so 
fresh  and  unweathered  it  was  still  redolent  of 
gum  and  balsam  like  a  newly  felled  tree.  Stroll 
ing  forward,  wondering  who  could  have  built  it, 
I  found  an  old,  weary-eyed,  speculative,  gray- 
haired  man  on  a  bark  stool  by  the  door,  reading 
a  book.  The  discovery  of  his  hermitage  by  a 
stranger  seemed  to  surprise  him,  but  when  I 
explained  that  I  was  only  a  tree-lover  saunter 
ing  along  the  mountains  to  study  sequoia,  he 
bade  me  welcome,  made  me  bring  my  mule 
down  to  a  little  slanting  meadow  before  his 
door  and  camp  with  him,  promising  to  show 
me  his  pet  trees  and  many  curious  things  bear 
ing  on  my  studies. 

After  supper,  as  the  evening  shadows  were 
falling,  the  good  hermit  sketched  his  life  in  the 
mines,  which  in  the  main  was  like  that  of  most 
other  pioneer  gold-hunters  —  a  succession  of  in 
tense  experiences  full  of  big  ups  and  downs  like 

312 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

the  mountain  topography.  Since  '"49"  he  had 
wandered  over  most  of  the  Sierra,  sinking  in 
numerable  prospect  holes  like  a  sailor  making 
soundings,  digging  new  channels  for  streams, 
sifting  gold-sprinkled  boulder  and  gravel  beds 
with  unquenchable  energy,  life's  noon  the 
meanwhile  passing  unnoticed  into  late  after 
noon  shadows.  Then,  health  and  gold  gone, 
the  game  played  and  lost,  like  a  wounded  deer 
creeping  into  this  forest  solitude,  he  awaits  the 
sundown  call.  How  sad  the  undertones  of  many 
a  life  here,  now  the  noise  of  the  first  big  gold 
battles  has  died  away!  How  many  interesting 
wrecks  lie  drifted  and  stranded  in  hidden  nooks 
of  the  gold  region !  Perhaps  no  other  range  con 
tains  the  remains  of  so  many  rare  and  interest 
ing  men.  The  name  of  my  hermit  friend  is 
John  A.  Nelder,  a  fine  kind  man,  who  in  going* 
into  the  woods  has  at  last  gone  home;  for  he 
loves  nature  truly,  and  realizes  that  these  last 
shadowy  days  with  scarce  a  glint  of  gold  in 
them  are  the  best  of  all.  Birds,  squirrels,  plants 
get  loving,  natural  recognition,  and  delightful 
it  was  to  see  how  sensitively  he  responds  to  the 
silent  influences  of  the  woods.  His  eyes  bright 
ened  as  he  gazed  on  the  trees  that  stand  guard 
around  his  little  home ;  squirrels  and  mountain 
quail  came  to  his  call  to  be  fed,  and  he  tenderly 
stroked  the  little  snowbent  sapling  sequoias, 
313 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

hoping  they  yet  might  grow  straight  to  the  sky 
and  rule  the  grove.  One  of  the  greatest  of  his 
trees  stands  a  little  way  back  of  his  cabin,  and 
he  proudly  led  me  to  it,  bidding  me  admire  its 
colossal  proportions  and  measure  it  to  see  if  in 
all  the  forest  there  could  be  another  so  grand. 
It  proved  to  be  only  twenty-six  feet  in  diam 
eter,  and  he  seemed  distressed  to  learn  that  the 
Mariposa  Grizzly  Giant  was  larger.  I  tried  to 
comfort  him  by  observing  that  his  was  the 
taller,  finer  formed,  and  perhaps  the  more  fa 
vorably  situated.  Then  he  led  me  to  some  noble 
ruins,  remnants  of  gigantic  trunks  of  trees  that 
he  supposed  must  have  been  larger  than  any 
now  standing,  and  though  they  had  lain  on  the 
damp  ground  exposed  to  fire  and  the  weather 
for  centuries,  the  wood  was  perfectly  sound. 
"Sequoia  timber  is  not  only  beautiful  in  color, 
rose  red  when  fresh,  and  as  easily  worked  as 
pine,  but  it  is  almost  absolutely  unperishable. 
Build  a  house  of  Big  Tree  logs  on  granite 
and  that  house  will  last  about  as  long  as  its 
foundation.  Indeed,  fire  seems  to  be  the  only 
agent  that  has  any  appreciable  effect  on  it. 
From  one  of  these  ancient  trunk  remnants  I 
cut  a  specimen  of  the  wood,  which  neither  in 
color,  strength,  nor  soundness  could  be  distin 
guished  from  specimens  cut  from  living  trees, 
although  it  had  certainly  lain  on  the  damp 

314 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

forest  floor  for  more  than  three  hundred  and 
eighty  years,  probably  more  than  thrice  as  long. 
The  tune  in  this  instance  was  determined  as  fol 
lows:  When  the  tree  from  which  the  specimen 
was  derived  fell  it  sunk  itself  into  the  ground, 
making  a  ditch  about  two  hundred  feet  long  and 
five  or  six  feet  deep;  and  in  the  middle  of  this 
ditch,  where  a  part  of  the  fallen  trunk  had  been 
burned,  a  silver  fir  four  feet  in  diameter  and 
three  hundred  and  eighty  years  old  was  grow 
ing,  showing  that  the  sequoia  trunk  had  lain  on 
the  ground  three  hundred  and  eighty  years  plus 
the  unknown  time  that  it  lay  before  the  part 
whose  place  had  been  taken  by  the  fir  was 
burned  out  of  the  way,  and  that  which  had 
elapsed  ere  the  seed  from  which  the  monu 
mental  fir  sprang  fell  into  the  prepared  soil  and 
took  root.  Now  because  sequoia  trunks  are 
never  wholly  consumed  in  one  forest  fire  and 
these  fires  recur  only  at  considerable  inter 
vals,  and  because  sequoia  ditches,  after  being 
cleared,  are  often  left  unplanted  for  centuries, 
it  becomes  evident  that  the  trunk  remnant  in 
question  may  have  been  on  the  ground  a  thou 
sand  years  or  more.  Similar  vestiges  are  com 
mon,  and  together  with  the  root-bowls  and  long 
straight  ditches  of  the  fallen  monarchs,  throw 
a  sure  light  back  on  the  post-glacial  history  of 
the  species,  bearing  on  its  distribution.  One  of 

315 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  most  interesting  features  of  this  grove  is 
the  apparent  ease  and  strength  and  comfort 
able  independence  in  which  the  trees  occupy 
their  place  in  the  general  forest.  Seedlings,  sap 
lings,  young  and  middle-aged  trees  are  grouped 
promisingly  around  the  old  patriarchs,  betray 
ing  no  sign  of  approach  to  extinction.  On  the 
contrary,  all  seem  to  be  saying,  "Everything  is 
to  our  mind  and  we  mean  to  live  forever."  But, 
sad  to  tell,  a  lumber  company  was  building  a 
large  mill  and  flume  near  by,  assuring  wide 
spread  destruction. 

In  the  cones  and  sometimes  in  the  lower  por 
tion  of  the  trunk  and  roots  there  is  a  dark  gritty 
substance  which  dissolves  readily  in  water  and 
yields  a  magnificent  purple  color.  It  is  a  strong 
astringent,  and  is  said  to  be  used  by  the  Indians 
as  a  big  medicine.  Mr.  Nelder  showed  me  speci 
mens  of  ink  he  had  made  from  it,  which  I  tried 
and  found  good,  flowing  freely  and  holding  its 
color  well.  Indeed,  everything  about  the  tree 
seems  constant.  With  these  interesting  trees, 
forming  the  largest  of  the  northern  groves,  I 
stopped  only  a  week,  for  I  had  far  to  go  before 
the  fall  of  the  snow.  The  hermit  seemed  to 
cling  to  me  and  tried  to  make  me  promise  to 
winter  with  him  after  the  season's  work  was 
done.  Brownie  had  to  be  got  home,  however, 
and  other  work  awaited  me,  therefore  I  could 

316 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

only  promise  to  stop  a  day  or  two  on  my  way 
back  to  Yosemite  and  give  him  the  forest  news. 
The  next  two  weeks  were  spent  in  the  wide 
basin  of  the  San  Joaquin,  climbing  innumerable 
ridges  and  surveying  the  far-extending  sea  of 
pines  and  firs.  But  not  a  single  sequoia  crown 
appeared  among  them  all,  nor  any  trace  of  a 
fallen  trunk,  until  I  had  crossed  the  south  di 
vide  of  the  basin,  opposite  Dinky  Creek,  one  of 
the  northmost  tributaries  of  Kings  River.  On 
this  stream  there  is  a  small  grove,  said  to  have 
been  discovered  a  few  years  before  my  visit  by 
two  hunters  in  pursuit  of  a  wounded  bear.  Just 
as  I  was  fording  one  of  the  branches  of  Dinky 
Creek  I  met  a  shepherd,  and  when  I  asked  him 
whether  he  knew  anything  about  the  Big  Trees 
of  the  neighborhood  he  replied,  "I  know  all 
about  them,  for  I  visited  them  only  a  few  days 
ago  and  pastured  my  sheep  in  the  grove."  He 
was  fresh  from  the  East,  and  as  this  was  his 
first  summer  in  the  Sierra  I  was  curious  to  learn 
what  impression  the  sequoias  had  made  on  him. 
When  I  asked  whether  it  was  true  that  the  Big 
Trees  were  really  so  big  as  people  say,  he 
warmly  replied,  "Oh,  yes  sir,  you  bet.  They 
're  whales.  I  never  used  to  believe  half  I  heard 
about  the  awful  size  of  California  trees,  but 
they  're  monsters  and  no  mistake.  One  of  them 
over  here,  they  tell  me,  is  the  biggest  tree  in  the 
317 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

whole  world,  and  I  guess  it  is,  for  it 's  forty  foot 
through  and  as  many  good  long  paces  around." 
He  was  very  earnest,  and  in  fullness  of  faith 
offered  to  guide  me  to  the  grove  that  I  might 
not  miss  seeing  this  biggest  tree.  A  fair  meas 
urement  four  feet  from  the  ground,  above  the 
main  swell  of  the  roots,  showed  a  diameter  of 
only  thirty-two  feet,  much  to  the  young  man's 
disgust.  "Only  thirty-two  feet,"  he  lamented, 
"only  thirty-two,  and  I  always  thought  it  was 
forty ! "  Then  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "No  matter, 
that's  a  big  tree,  anyway;  no  fool  of  a  tree,  sir, 
that  you  can  cut  a  plank  out  of  thirty  feet 
broad,  straight-edged,  no  bark,  all  good  wood, 
sound  and  solid.  It  would  make  the  brag  white 
pine  planks  from  old  Maine  look  like  laths."  A 
good  many  other  fine  specimens  are  distributed 
along  three  small  branches  of  the  creek,  and  I 
noticed  several  thrifty  moderate-sized  sequoias 
growing  on  a  granite  ledge,  apparently  as  inde 
pendent  of  deep  soil  as  the  pines  and  firs,  cling 
ing  to  seams  and  fissures  and  sending  their 
roots  far  abroad  hi  search  of  moisture. 

The  creek  is  very  clear  and  beautiful,  gliding 
through  tangles  of  shrubs  and  flower  beds,  gay 
bee  and  butterfly  pastures,  the  grove's  own 
stream,  pure  sequoia  water,  flowing  all  the  year, 
every  drop  filtered  through  moss  and  leaves  and 
the  myriad  spongy  rootlets  of  the  giant  trees. 
318 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the 
grove  is  a  small  waterfall  with  a  flowery,  ferny, 
clear  brimming  pool  at  the  foot  of  it.  How 
cheerily  it  sings  the  songs  of  the  wilderness,  and 
how  sweet  its  tones!  You  seem  to  taste  as  well 
as  hear  them,  while  only  the  subdued  roar  of 
the  river  in  the  deep  canon  reaches  up  into  the 
grove,  sounding  like  the  sea  and  the  winds.  So 
charming  a  fall  and  pool  in  the  heart  of  so  glo 
rious  a  forest  good  pagans  would  have  conse 
crated  to  some  lovely  nymph. 

Hence  down  into  the  main  Kings  River 
canon,  a  mile  deep,  I  led  and  dragged  and 
shoved  my  patient,  much-enduring  mule 
through  miles  and  miles  of  gardens  and  brush, 
fording  innumerable  streams,  crossing  savage 
rock  slopes  and  taluses,  scrambling,  sliding 
through  gulches  and  gorges,  then  up  into  the 
grand  sequoia  forests  of  the  south  side,  cheered 
by  the  royal  crowns  displayed  on  the  narrow 
horizon.  In  a  day  and  a  half  we  reached  the 
sequoia  woods  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  old 
Thomas's  Mill  Flat.  Thence  striking  off  north 
eastward  I  found  a  magnificent  forest  nearly 
six  miles  long  by  two  in  width,  composed 
mostly  of  Big  Trees,  with  outlying  groves  as 
far  east  as  Boulder  Creek.  Here  five  or  six 
days  were  spent,  and  it  was  delightful  to  learn 
from  countless  trees,  old  and  young,  how  com- 

319 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

fortably  they  were  settled  down  in  concord 
ance  with  climate  and  soil  and  their  noble 
neighbors. 

Imbedded  in  these  majestic  woods  there  are 
numerous  meadows,  around  the  sides  of  which 
the  Big  Trees  press  close  together  in  beautiful 
lines,  showing  their  grandeur  openly  from  the 
ground  to  their  domed  heads  in  the  sky.  The 
young  trees  are  still  more  numerous  and  exu 
berant  than  in  the  Fresno  and  Dinky  groves, 
standing  apart  in  beautiful  family  groups,  or 
crowding  around  the  old  giants.  For  every 
venerable  lightning-stricken  tree,  there  is  one 
or  more  in  the  glory  of  prime,  and  for  each  of 
these,  many  young  trees  and  crowds  of  saplings. 
The  young  trees  express  the  grandeur  of  their 
race  in  a  way  indefinable  by  any  words  at  my 
command.  When  they  are  five  or  six  feet  in  di 
ameter  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high,  they 
seem  like  mere  baby  saplings  as  many  inches 
in  diameter,  their  juvenile  habit  and  gestures 
completely  veiling  their  real  size,  even  to  those 
who,  from  long  experience,  are  able  to  make 
fair  approximation  in  their  measurements  of 
common  trees.  One  morning  I  noticed  three 
airy,  spiry,  quick-growing  babies  on  the  side  of 
a  meadow,  the  largest  of  which  I  took  to  be 
about  eight  inches  in  diameter.  On  measuring 
it,  I  found  to  my  astonishment  it  was  five  feet 

320 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

six  inches  in  diameter,  and  about  a  hundred  and 
forty  feet  high. 

On  a  bed  of  sandy  ground  fifteen  yards 
square,  which  had  been  occupied  by  four  sugar 
pines,  I  counted  ninety-four  promising  seed 
lings,  an  instance  of  sequoia  gaining  ground 
from  its  neighbors.  Here  also  I  noted  eighty- 
six  young  sequoias  from  one  to  fifty  feet  high  on 
less  than  half  an  acre  of  ground  that  had  been 
cleared  and  prepared  for  their  reception  by  fire. 
This  was  a  small  bay  burned  into  dense  cha 
parral,  showing  that  fire,  the  great  destroyer 
of  tree  life,  is  sometimes  followed  by  conditions 
favorable  for  new  growths.  Sufficient  fresh 
soil,  however,  is  furnished  for  the  constant  re 
newal  of  the  forest  by  the  fall  of  old  trees  with 
out  the  help  of  any  other  agent,  —  burrowing 
animals,  fire,  flood,  landslip,  etc.,  —  for  the 
ground  is  thus  turned  and  stirred  as  well  as 
cleared,  and  in  every  roomy,  shady  hollow  be 
side  the  walls  of  upturned  roots  many  hopeful 
seedlings  spring  up. 

The  largest,  and  as  far  as  I  know  the  oldest, 
of  all  the  Kings  River  trees  that  I  saw  is  the 
majestic  stump,  already  referred  to,  about  a 
hundred  and  forty  feet  high,  which  above  the 
swell  of  the  roots  is  thirty-five  feet  and  eight 
inches  inside  the  bark,  and  over  four  thousand 
years  old.  It  was  burned  nearly  half  through  at 
321 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  base,  and  I  spent  a  day  in  chopping  off 
the  charred  surface,  cutting  into  the  heart,  and 
counting  the  wood-rings  with  the  aid  of  a  lens. 
I  made  out  a  little  over  four  thousand  without 
difficulty  or  doubt,  but  I  was  unable  to  get  a 
complete  count,  owing  to  confusion  in  the  rings 
where  wounds  had  been  healed  over.  Judging 
by  what  is  left  of  it,  this  was  a  fine,  tall,  sym 
metrical  tree  nearly  forty  feet  hi  diameter  be 
fore  it  lost  its  bark.  In  the  last  sixteen  hundred 
and  seventy-two  years  the  increase  in  diameter 
was  ten  feet.  A  short  distance  south  of  this  for 
est  lies  a  beautiful  grove,  now  mostly  included 
in  the  General  Grant  National  Park.  I  found 
many  shake-makers  at  work  in  it,  access  to 
these  magnificent  woods  having  been  made  easy 
by  the  old  mill  wagon  road.  The  Park  is  only 
two  miles  square,  and  the  largest  of  its  many 
fine  trees  is  the  General  Grant,  so  named  before 
the  date  of  my  first  visit,  twenty-eight  years 
ago,  and  said  to  be  the  largest  tree  in  the  world, 
though  above  the  craggy  bulging  base  the  diam 
eter  is  less  than  thirty  feet.  The  Sanger  Lum 
ber  Company  owns  nearly  all  the  Kings  River 
groves  outside  the  Park,  and  for  many  years  the 
mills  have  been  spreading  desolation  without 
any  advantage. 

One  of  the  shake-makers  directed  me  to  an 
"old  snag  biggeren  Grant."  It  proved  to  be  a 

322 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

huge  black  charred  stump  thirty-two  feet  in 
diameter,  the  next  in  size  to  the  grand  monu 
ment  mentioned  above. 

I  found  a  scattered  growth  of  Big  Trees  ex 
tending  across  the  main  divide  to  within  a  short 
distance  of  Hyde's  Mill,  on  a  tributary  of  Dry 
Creek.  The  mountain  ridge  on  the  south  side 
of  the  stream  was  covered  from  base  to  summit 
with  a  most  superb  growth  of  Big  Trees.  What 
a  picture  it  made !  In  all  my  wide  forest  wander 
ings  I  had  seen  none  so  sublime.  Every  tree  of 
all  the  mighty  host  seemed  perfect  in  beauty 
and  strength,  and  their  majestic  domed  heads, 
rising  above  one  another  on  the  mountain  slope, 
were  most  imposingly  displayed,  like  a  range 
of  bossy  upswelling  cumulus  clouds  on  a  calm 
sky. 

In  this  glorious  forest  the  mill  was  busy,  form 
ing  a  sore,  sad  center  of  destruction,  though 
small  as  yet,  so  immensely  heavy  was  the 
growth.  Only  the  smaller  and  most  accessible 
of  the  trees  were  being  cut.  The  logs,  from 
three  to  ten  or  twelve  feet  in  diameter,  were 
dragged  or  rolled  with  long  strings  of  oxen  into 
a  chute  and  sent  flying  down  the  steep  moun 
tain  side  to  the  mill  flat,  where  the  largest  of 
them  were  blasted  into  manageable  dimensions 
for  the  saws.  And  as  the  timber  is  very  brash, 
by  this  blasting  and  careless  felling  on  uneven 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ground,  half  or  three  fourths  of  the  timber  was 
wasted. 

I  spent  several  days  exploring  the  ridge  and 
counting  the  annual  wood-rings  on  a  large  num 
ber  of  stumps  in  the  clearings,  then  replenished 
my  bread  sack  and  pushed  on  southward.  All 
the  way  across  the  broad  rough  basins  of  the 
Kaweah  and  Tule  rivers  sequoia  ruled  supreme, 
forming  an  almost  continuous  belt  for  sixty  or 
seventy  miles,  waving  up  and  down  in  huge 
massy  mountain  billows  in  compliance  with  the 
grand  glaciers-ploughed  topography. 

Day  after  day,  from  grove  to  grove,  canon  to 
canon,  I  made  a  long,  wavering  way,  terribly 
rough  in  some  places  for  Brownie,  but  cheery 
for  me,  for  Big  Trees  were  seldom  out  of  sight. 
We  crossed  the  rugged,  picturesque  basins  of 
Redwood  Creek,  the  North  Fork  of  the  Ka 
weah,  and  Marble  Fork  gloriously  forested,  and 
full  of  beautiful  cascades  and  falls,  sheer  and 
slanting,  infinitely  varied  with  broad  curly 
foam  fleeces  and  strips  of  embroidery  in  which 
the  sunbeams  revel.  Thence  we  climbed  into 
the  noble  forest  on  the  Marble  and  Middle 
Fork  Divide.  After  a  general  exploration  of  the 
Kaweah  basin,  this  part  of  the  sequoia  belt 
seemed  to  me  the  finest,  and  I  then  named  it 
"the  Giant  Forest."  It  extends,  a  magnificent 
growth  of  giants  grouped  in  pure  temple  groves, 

324 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

ranged  in  colonnades  along  the  sides  of  mead 
ows,  or  scattered  among  the  other  trees,  from 
the  granite  headlands  overlooking  the  hot  foot 
hills  and  plains  of  the  San  Joaquin  back  to 
within  a  few  miles  of  the  old  glacier  fountains 
at  an  elevation  of  five  thousand  to  eighty-four 
hundred  feet  above  the  sea. 

When  I  entered  this  sublime  wilderness  the 
day  was  nearly  done,  the  trees  with  rosy,  glow 
ing  countenances  seemed  to  be  hushed  and 
thoughtful,  as  if  waiting  in  conscious  religious 
dependence  on  the  sun,  and  one  naturally 
walked  softly  and  awe-stricken  among  them. 
I  wandered  on,  meeting  nobler  trees  where  all 
are  noble,  subdued  in  the  general  calm,  as  if  in 
some  vast  hall  pervaded  by  the  deepest  sancti 
ties  and  solemnities  that  sway  human  souls. 
At  sundown  the  trees  seemed  to  cease  their 
worship  and  breathe  free.  I  heard  the  birds 
going  home.  I  too  sought  a  home  for  the  night 
on  the  edge  of  a  level  meadow  where  there 
is  a  long,  open  view  between  the  evenly 
ranked  trees  standing  guard  along  its  sides. 
Then  after  a  good  place  was  found  for  poor 
Brownie,  who  had  had  a  hard,  weary  day 
sliding  and  scrambling  across  the  Marble 
Canon,  I  made  my  bed  and  supper  and  lay 
on  my  back  looking  up  to  the  stars  through 
pillared  arches  finer  far  than  the  pious  heart  of 

325 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

man,  telling  its  love,  ever  reared.  Then  I  took 
a  walk  up  the  meadow  to  see  the  trees  in  the 
pale  light.  They  seemed  still  more  marvelously 
massive  and  tall  than  by  day,  heaving  their 
colossal  heads  into  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
among  the  stars,  some  of  which  appeared  to 
be  sparkling  on  their  branches  like  flowers.  I 
built  a  big  fire  that  vividly  illumined  the  huge 
brown  boles  of  the  nearest  trees  and  the  little 
plants  and  cones  and  fallen  leaves  at  their  feet, 
keeping  up  the  show  until  I  fell  asleep  to  dream 
of  boundless  forests  and  trail-building  for 
Brownie. 

Joyous  birds  welcomed  the  dawn;  and  the 
squirrels,  now  their  food  cones  were  ripe  and 
had  to  be  quickly  gathered  and  stored  for  win 
ter,  began  their  work  before  sunrise.  My  tea- 
and-bread-crumb  breakfast  was  soon  done,  and 
leaving  jaded  Brownie  to  feed  and  rest  I  saun 
tered  forth  to  my  studies.  In  every  direction  se 
quoia  ruled  the  woods.  Most  of  the  other  big 
conifers  were  present  here  and  there,  but  not 
as  rivals  or  companions.  They  only  served  to 
thicken  and  enrich  the  general  wilderness. 
Trees  of  every  age  cover  craggy  ridges  as  well 
as  the  deep  moraine-soiled  slopes,  and  plant 
their  magnificent  shafts  along  every  brookside 
and  meadow.  Bogs  and  meadows  are  rare  or 
entirely  wanting  in  the  isolated  groves  north 

326 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

of  Kings  River;  here  there  is  a  beautiful  series 
of  them  lying  on  the  broad  top  of  the  main 
dividing  ridge,  imbedded  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  mammoth  woods  as  if  for  ornament,  their 
smooth,  plushy  bosoms  kept  bright  and  fertile 
by  streams  and  sunshine. 

Resting  awhile  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  them  when  the  sun  was  high,  it  seemed  im 
possible  that  any  other  forest  picture  in  the 
world  could  rival  it.  There  lay  the  grassy,  flow 
ery  lawn,  three  fourths  of  a  mile  long,  smoothly 
outspread,  basking  in  mellow  autumn  light, 
colored  brown  and  yellow  and  purple,  streaked 
with  lines  of  green  along  the  streams,  and  ruf 
fled  here  and  there  with  patches  of  ledum  and 
scarlet  vaccinium.  Around  the  margin  there  is 
first  a  fringe  of  azalea  and  willow  bushes,  col 
ored  orange  yellow,  enlivened  with  vivid  dashes 
of  red  cornel,  as  if  painted.  Then  up  spring  the 
mighty  walls  of  verdure  three  hundred  feet 
high,  the  brown  fluted  pillars  so  thick  and  tall 
and  strong  they  seem  fit  to  uphold  the  sky; 
the  dense  foliage,  swelling  forward  in  rounded 
bosses  on  the  upper  half,  variously  shaded  and 
tinted,  that  of  the  young  trees  dark  green,  of 
the  old  yellowish.  An  aged  lightning-smitten 
patriarch  standing  a  little  forward  beyond  the 
general  line  with  knotty  arms  outspread  was 
covered  with  gray  and  yellow  lichens  and  sur- 

327 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

rounded  by  a  group  of  saplings  whose  slender 
spires  seemed  to  lack  not  a  single  leaf  or  spray 
in  their  wondrous  perfection.  Such  was  the 
Kaweah  meadow  picture  that  golden  afternoon, 
and  as  I  gazed  every  color  seemed  to  deepen  and 
glow  as  if  the  progress  of  the  fresh  sun-work 
were  visible  from  hour  to  hour,  while  every 
tree  seemed  religious  and  conscious  of  the  pres 
ence  of  God.  A  free  man  revels  in  a  scene  like 
this  and  time  goes  by  unmeasured.  I  stood 
fixed  in  silent  wonder  or  sauntered  about  shift 
ing  my  points  of  view,  studying  the  physiog 
nomy  of  separate  trees,  and  going  out  to  the 
different  color  patches  to  see  how  they  were 
put  on  and  what  they  were  made  of,  giving  free 
expression  to  my  joy,  exulting  in  Nature's  wild 
immortal  vigor  and  beauty,  never  dreaming 
any  other  human  being  was  near.  Suddenly  the 
spell  was  broken  by  dull  bumping,  thudding 
sounds,  and  a  man  and  horse  came  in  sight 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  meadow,  where  they 
seemed  sadly  out  of  place.  A  good  big  bear  or 
mastodon  or  megatherium  would  have  been 
more  in  keeping  with  the  old  mammoth  forest. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  always  pleasant  to  meet  one 
of  our  own  species  after  solitary  rambles,  and  I 
stepped  out  where  I  could  be  seen  and  shouted, 
when  the  rider  reined  in  his  galloping  mustang 
and  waited  my  approach.  He  seemed  too  much 

328 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

surprised  to  speak  until,  laughing  in  his  puz 
zled  face,  I  said  I  was  glad  to  meet  a  fellow 
mountaineer  in  so  lonely  a  place.  Then  he 
abruptly  asked,  "What  are  you  doing?  How 
did  you  get  here?"  I  explained  that  I  came 
across  the  canons  from  Yosemite  and  was  only 
looking  at  the  trees.  "Oh  then,  I  know,"  he 
said,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  "you  must  be  John 
Muir."  He  was  herding  a  band  of  horses  that 
had  been  driven  up  a  rough  trail  from  the  low 
lands  to  feed  on  these  forest  meadows.  A  few 
handfuls  of  crumb  detritus  was  all  that  was  left 
in  my  bread  sack,  so  I  told  him  that  I  was 
nearly  out  of  provision  and  asked  whether  he 
could  spare  me  a  little  flour.  "Oh,  yes,  of 
course  you  can  have  anything  I've  got,"  he 
said.  "Just  take  my  track  and  it  will  lead  you 
to  my  camp  in  a  big  hollow  log  on  the  side  of  a 
meadow  two  or  three  miles  from  here.  I  must 
ride  after  some  strayed  horses,  but  I  '11  be  back 
before  night;  in  the  mean  time  make  yourself 
at  home."  He  galloped  away  to  the  northward, 
I  returned  to  my  own  camp,  saddled  Brownie, 
and  by  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  discovered 
his  noble  den  in  a  fallen  sequoia  hollowed  by 
fire  —  a  spacious  loghouse  of  one  log,  carbon- 
lined,  centuries  old  yet  sweet  and  fresh,  weather 
proof,  earthquake  proof,  likely  to  outlast  the 
most  durable  stone  castle,  and  commanding 
329 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

views  of  garden  and  grove  grander  far  than 
the  richest  king  ever  enjoyed.  Brownie  found 
plenty  of  grass  and  I  found  bread,  which  I 
ate  with  views  from  the  big  round,  ever-open 
door.  Soon  the  good  Samaritan  mountaineer 
came  in,  and  I  enjoyed  a  famous  rest  listening 
to  his  observations  on  trees,  animals,  adven 
tures,  etc.,  while  he  was  busily  preparing  sup 
per.  In  answer  to  inquiries  concerning  the  dis 
tribution  of  the  Big  Trees  he  gave  a  good  deal 
of  particular  information  of  the  forest  we  were 
in,  and  he  had  heard  that  the  species  extended 
a  long  way  south,  he  knew  not  how  far.  I  wan 
dered  about  for  several  days  within  a  radius  of 
six  or  seven  miles  of  the  camp,  surveying  bound 
aries,  measuring  trees,  and  climbing  the  high 
est  points  for  general  views.  From  the  south 
side  of  the  divide  I  saw  telling  ranks  of  sequoia- 
crowned  headlands  stretching  far  into  the  hazy 
distance,  and  plunging  vaguely  down  into  pro 
found  canon  depths  foreshadowing  weeks  of 
good  work.  I  had  now  been  out  on  the  trip 
more  than  a  month,  and  I  began  to  fear  my 
studies  would  be  interrupted  by  snow,  for  win 
ter  was  drawing  nigh.  "Where  there  isn't  a 
way  make  a  way,"  is  easily  said  when  no  way 
at  the  tune  is  needed,  but  to  the  Sierra  explorer 
with  a  mule  traveling  across  the  canon  lines  of 
drainage  the  brave  old  phrase  becomes  heavy 

330 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

with  meaning.  There  are  ways  across  the 
Sierra  graded  by  glaciers,  well  marked,  and  fol 
lowed  by  men  and  beasts  and  birds,  and  one 
of  them  even  by  locomotives;  but  none  natural 
or  artificial  along  the  range,  and  the  explorer 
who  would  thus  travel  at  right  angles  to  the 
glacial  ways  must  traverse  canons  and  ridges 
extending  side  by  side  in  endless  succession, 
roughened  by  side  gorges  and  gulches  and  stub 
born  chaparral,  and  defended  by  innumerable 
sheer-fronted  precipices.  My  own  ways  are 
easily  made  in  any  direction;  but  Brownie, 
though  one  of  the  toughest  and  most  skillful  of 
his  race,  was  oftentimes  discouraged  for  want 
of  hands,  and  caused  endless  work.  Wild  at 
first,  he  was  tame  enough  now;  and  when 
turned  loose  he  not  only  refused  to  run  away, 
but  as  his  troubles  increased  came  to  depend 
on  me  in  such  a  pitiful,  touching  way,  I  became 
attached  to  him  and  helped  him  as  if  he  were 
a  good-natured  boy  in  distress,  and  then  the 
labor  grew  lighter.  Bidding  good-bye  to  the 
kind  sequoia  cave-dweller,  we  vanished  again 
in  the  wilderness,  drifting  slowly  southward, 
sequoias  on  every  ridge-top  beckoning  and 
pointing  the  way. 

In  the  forest  between  the  Middle  and  East 
forks  of  the  Kaweah,  I  met  a  great  fire,  and  as 
fire  is  the  master  scourge  and  controller  of  the 

331 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

distribution  of  trees,  I  stopped  to  watch  it  and 
learn  what  I  could  of  its  works  and  ways  with 
the  giants.  It  came  racing  up  the  steep  chapar 
ral-covered  slopes  of  the  East  Fork  canon  with 
passionate  enthusiasm  in  a  broad  cataract  of 
flames,  now  bending  down  low  to  feed  on  the 
green  bushes,  devouring  acres  of  them  at  a 
breath,  now  towering  high  in  the  air  as  if  look 
ing  abroad  to  choose  a  way,  then  stooping  to 
feed  again,  the  lurid  flapping  surges  and  the 
smoke  and  terrible  rushing  and  roaring  hiding 
all  that  is  gentle  and  orderly  in  the  work.  But 
as  soon  as  the  deep  forest  was  reached  the  un 
governable  flood  became  calm  like  a  torrent 
entering  a  lake,  creeping  and  spreading  be 
neath  the  trees  where  the  ground  was  level  or 
sloped  gently,  slowly  nibbling  the  cake  of  com 
pressed  needles  and  scales  with  flames  an  inch 
high,  rising  here  and  there  to  a  foot  or  two 
on  dry  twigs  and  clumps  of  small  bushes  and 
brome  grass.  Only  at  considerable  intervals 
were  fierce  bonfires  lighted,  where  heavy 
branches  broken  off  by  snow  had  accumulated, 
or  around  some  venerable  giant  whose  head  had 
been  stricken  off  by  lightning. 

I  tethered  Brownie  on  the  edge  of  a  little 
meadow  beside  a  stream  a  good  safe  way  off, 
and  then  cautiously  chose  a  camp  for  myself 
in  a  big  stout  hollow  trunk  not  likely  to  be 

332 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

crushed  by  the  fall  of  burning  trees,  and  made  a 
bed  of  ferns  and  boughs  in  it.  The  night,  how 
ever,  and  the  strange  wild  fireworks  were  too 
beautiful  and  exciting  to  allow  much  sleep. 
There  was  no  danger  of  being  chased  and 
hemmed  in,  for  in  the  main  forest  belt  of  the 
Sierra,  even  when  swift  winds  are  blowing,  fires 
seldom  or  never  sweep  over  the  trees  in  broad 
all-embracing  sheets  as  they  do  in  the  dense 
Rocky  Mountain  woods  and  in  those  of  the 
Cascade  Mountains  of  Oregon  and  Washing 
ton.  Here  they  creep  from  tree  to  tree  with 
tranquil  deliberation,  allowing  close  observa 
tion,  though  caution  is  required  in  venturing 
around  the  burning  giants  to  avoid  falling 
limbs  and  knots  and  fragments  from  dead  shat 
tered  tops.  Though  the  day  was  best  for  study, 
I  sauntered  about  night  after  night,  learning 
what  I  could  and  admiring  the  wonderful  show 
vividly  displayed  in  the  lonely  darkness,  the 
ground-fire  advancing  in  long  crooked  lines 
gently  grazing  and  smoking  on  the  close-pressed 
leaves,  springing  up  in  thousands  of  little  jets 
of  pure  flame  on  dry  tassels  and  twigs,  and 
tall  spires  and  flat  sheets  with  jagged  flapping 
edges  dancing  here  and  there  on  grass  tufts  and 
bushes,  big  bonfires  blazing  in  perfect  storms 
of  energy  where  heavy  branches  mixed  with 
small  ones  lay  smashed  together  in  hundred 

333 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

cord  piles,  big  red  arches  between  spreading 
root-swells  and  trees  growing  close  together, 
huge  fire-mantled  trunks  on  the  hill  slopes 
glowing  like  bars  of  hot  iron,  violet-colored  fire 
running  up  the  tall  trees,  tracing  the  furrows  of 
the  bark  in  quick  quivering  rills,  and  lighting 
magnificent  torches  on  dry  shattered  tops,  and 
ever  and  anon,  with  a  tremendous  roar  and 
burst  of  light,  young  trees  clad  in  low-descend 
ing  feathery  branches  vanishing  in  one  flame 
two  or  three  hundred  feet  high. 

One  of  the  most  impressive  and  beautiful 
sights  was  made  by  the  great  fallen  trunks  ly 
ing  on  the  hillsides  all  red  and  glowing  like  co 
lossal  iron  bars  fresh  from  a  furnace,  two  hun 
dred  feet  long  some  of  them,  and  ten  to  twenty 
feet  thick.  After  repeated  burnings  have  con 
sumed  the  bark  and  sapwood,  the  sound  charred 
surface,  being  full  of  cracks  and  sprinkled  with 
leaves,  is  quickly  overspread  with  a  pure,  rich, 
furred,  ruby  glow  almost  flameless  and  smoke 
less,  producing  a  marvelous  effect  in  the  night. 
Another  grand  and  interesting  sight  are  the 
fires  on  the  tops  of  the  largest  living  trees  flam 
ing  above  the  green  branches  at  a  height  of 
perhaps  two  hundred  feet,  entirely  cut  off  from 
the  ground-fires,  and  looking  like  signal  beacons 
on  watch  towers.  From  one  standpoint  I  some- 
tunes  saw  a  dozen  or  more,  those  in  the  dis- 
334 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

tance  looking  like  great  stars  above  the  forest 
roof.  At  first  I  could  not  imagine  how  these 
sequoia  lamps  were  lighted,  but  the  very  first 
night,  strolling  about  waiting  and  watching,  I 
saw  the  thing  done  again  and  again.  The  thick, 
fibrous  bark  of  old  trees  is  divided  by  deep, 
nearly  continuous  furrows,  the  sides  of  which 
are  bearded  with  the  bristling  ends  of  fibers 
broken  by  the  growth  swelling  of  the  trunk,  and 
when  the  fire  comes  creeping  around  the  feet  of 
the  trees,  it  runs  up  these  bristly  furrows  in 
lovely  pale  blue  quivering,  bickering  rills  of 
flame  with  a  low,  earnest  whispering  sound  to 
the  lightning-shattered  top  of  the  trunk,  which, 
in  the  dry  Indian  summer,  with  perhaps  leaves 
and  twigs  and  squirrel-gnawed  cone-scales  and 
seed-wings  lodged  in  it,  is  readily  ignited. 
These  lamp-lighting  rills,  the  most  beautiful 
fire  streams  I  ever  saw,  last  only  a  minute  or 
two,  but  the  big  lamps  burn  with  varying 
brightness  for  days  and  weeks,  throwing  off 
sparks  like  the  spray  of  a  fountain,  while  ever 
and  anon  a  shower  of  red  coals  comes  sifting 
down  through  the  branches,  followed  at  times 
with  startling  effect  by  a  big  burned-off  chunk 
weighing  perhaps  half  a  ton. 

The  immense  bonfires  where  fifty  or  a  hun 
dred  cords  of  peeled,  split,  smashed  wood  has 
been  piled  around  some  old  giant  by  a  single 

335 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

stroke  of  lightning  is  another  grand  sight  in  the 
night.  The  light  is  so  great  I  found  I  could  read 
common  print  three  hundred  yards  from  them, 
and  the  illumination  of  the  circle  of  onlook- 
ing  trees  is  indescribably  impressive.  Other 
big  fires,  roaring  and  booming  like  waterfalls, 
were  blazing  on  the  upper  sides  of  trees  on  hill- 
slopes,  against  which  limbs  broken  off  by  heavy 
snow  had  rolled,  while  branches  high  overhead, 
tossed  and  shaken  by  the  ascending  air  current, 
seemed  to  be  writhing  in  pain.  Perhaps  the 
most  startling  phenomenon  of  all  was  the  quick 
death  of  childlike  sequoias  only  a  century  or 
two  of  age.  In  the  midst  of  the  other  compara 
tively  slow  and  steady  fire  work  one  of  these 
tall,  beautiful  saplings,  leafy  and  branchy, 
would  be  seen  blazing  up  suddenly,  all  in  one 
heaving,  booming,  passionate  flame  reaching 
from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  the  tree  and  fifty 
to  a  hundred  feet  or  more  above  it,  with  a 
smoke  column  bending  forward  and  streaming 
away  on  the  upper,  free-flowing  wind.  To  burn 
these  green  trees  a  strong  fire  of  dry  wood  be 
neath  them  is  required,  to  send  up  a  current  of 
air  hot  enough  to  distill  inflammable  gases  from 
the  leaves  and  sprays ;  then  instead  of  the  lower 
limbs  gradually  catching  fire  and  igniting  the 
next  and  next  in  succession,  the  whole  tree 
seems  to  explode  almost  simultaneously,  and 

336 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

with  awful  roaring  and  throbbing  a  round, 
tapering  flame  shoots  up  two  or  three  hundred 
feet,  and  in  a  second  or  two  is  quenched,  leav 
ing  the  green  spire  a  black,  dead  mast,  bristled 
and  roughened  with  down-curling  boughs. 
Nearly  all  the  trees  that  have  been  burned 
down  are  lying  with  their  heads  uphill,  because 
they  are  burned  far  more  deeply  on  the  upper 
side,  on  account  of  broken  limbs  rolling  down 
against  them  to  make  hot  fires,  while  only 
leaves  and  twigs  accumulate  on  the  lower  side 
and  are  quickly  consumed  without  injury  to 
the  tree.  But  green,  resinless  sequoia  wood 
burns  very  slowly,  and  many  successive  fires 
are  required  to  burn  down  a  large  tree.  Fires 
can  run  only  at  intervals  of  several  years,  and 
when  the  ordinary  amount  of  firewood  that 
has  rolled  against  the  gigantic  trunk  is  con 
sumed,  only  a  shallow  scar  is  made,  which  is 
slowly  deepened  by  recurring  fires  until  far  be 
yond  the  center  of  gravity,  and  when  at  last 
the  tree  falls,  it  of  course  falls  uphill.  The  heal 
ing  folds  of  wood  layers  on  some  of  the  deeply 
burned  trees  show  that  centuries  have  elapsed 
since  the  last  wounds  were  made. 

When  a  great  sequoia  falls,  its  head  is 
smashed  into  fragments  about  as  small  as  those 
made  by  lightning,  which  are  mostly  devoured 
by  the  first  running,  hunting  fire  that  finds 

337 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

them,  while  the  trunk  is  slowly  wasted  away 
by  centuries  of  fire  and  weather.  One  of  the 
most  interesting  fire  actions  on  the  trunk  is 
the  boring  of  those  great  tunnel-like  hollows 
through  which  horsemen  may  gallop.  All  of 
these  famous  hollows  are  burned  out  of  the 
solid  wood,  for  no  sequoia  is  ever  hollowed  by 
decay.  When  the  tree  falls  the  brash  trunk  is 
often  broken  straight  across  into  sections  as  if 
sawed;  into  these  joints  the  fire  creeps,  and,  on 
account  of  the  great  size  of  the  broken  ends, 
burns  for  weeks  or  even  months  without  being 
much  influenced  by  the  weather.  After  the 
great  glowing  ends  fronting  each  other  have 
burned  so  far  apart  that  their  rims  cease  to 
burn,  the  fire  continues  to  work  on  in  the 
centers,  and  the  ends  become  deeply  concave. 
Then  heat  being  radiated  from  side  to  side,  the 
burning  goes  on  in  each  section  of  the  trunk 
independent  of  the  other,  until  the  diameter  of 
the  bore  is  so  great  that  the  heat  radiated  across 
from  side  to  side  is  not  sufficient  to  keep  them 
burning.  It  appears,  therefore,  that  only  very 
large  trees  can  receive  the  fire-auger  and  havG 
any  shell  rim  left. 

Fire  attacks  the  large  trees  only  at  the 
ground,  consuming  the  fallen  leaves  and  humus 
at  their  feet,  doing  but  little  harm  unless  con 
siderable  quantities  of  fallen  limbs  happen  to 

338 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

be  piled  about  them,  their  thick  mail  of  spongy, 
unpitchy,  almost  unburnable  bark  affording 
strong  protection.  Therefore  the  oldest  and 
most  perfect  unscarred  trees  are  found  on 
ground  that  is  nearly  level,  while  those  growing 
on  hillsides,  against  which  falling  branches  roll, 
are  always  deeply  scarred  on  the  upper  side, 
and  as  we  have  seen  are  sometimes  burned 
down.  The  saddest  thing  of  all  was  to  see  the 
hopeful  seedlings,  many  of  them  crinkled  and 
bent  with  the  pressure  of  winter  snow,  yet 
bravely  aspiring  at  the  top,  helplessly  perish 
ing,  and  young  trees,  perfect  spires  of  verdure 
and  naturally  immortal,  suddenly  changed  to 
dead  masts.  Yet  the  sun  looked  cheerily  down 
the  openings  in  the  forest  roof,  turning  the 
black  smoke  to  a  beautiful  brown,  as  if  all  was 
for  the  best. 

Beneath  the  smoke-clouds  of  the  suffering 
forest  we  again  pushed  southward,  descending 
a  side-gorge  of  the  East  Fork  canon  and  climb 
ing  another  into  new  forests  and  groves  not  a 
whit  less  noble.  Brownie,  the  meanwhile,  had 
been  resting,  while  I  was  weary  and  sleepy  with 
almost  ceaseless  wanderings,  giving  only  an 
hour  or  two  each  night  or  day  to  sleep  in  my 
log  home.  Way-making  here  seemed  to  become 
more  and  more  difficult,  "impossible,"  in  com 
mon  phrase,  for  four-legged  travelers.  Two  or 

339 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

three  miles  was  all  the  day's  work  as  far  as  dis 
tance  was  concerned.  Nevertheless,  just  before 
sundown  we  found  a  charming  camp  ground 
with  plenty  of  grass,  and  a  forest  to  study  that 
had  felt  no  fire  for  many  a  year.  The  camp 
hollow  was  evidently  a  favorite  home  of  bears. 
On  many  of  the  trees,  at  a  height  of  six  or  eight 
feet,  their  autographs  were  inscribed  in  strong, 
free,  flowing  strokes  on  the  soft  bark  where 
they  had  stood  up  like  cats  to  stretch  their 
limbs.  Using  both  hands,  every  claw  a  pen, 
the  handsome  curved  lines  of  their  writing  take 
the  form  of  remarkably  regular  interlacing 
pointed  arches,  producing  a  truly  ornamental 
effect.  I  looked  and  listened,  half  expecting  to 
see  some  of  the  writers  alarmed  and  withdraw 
ing  from  the  unwonted  disturbance.  Brownie 
also  looked  and  listened,  for  mules  fear  bears 
instinctively  and  have  a  very  keen  nose  for 
them.  When  I  turned  him  loose,  instead  of 
going  to  the  best  grass,  he  kept  cautiously  near 
the  camp-fire  for  protection,  but  was  careful 
not  to  step  on  me.  The  great  starry  night 
passed  away  in  deep  peace  and  the  rosy  morn 
ing  sunbeams  were  searching  the  grove  ere  I 
awoke  from  a  long,  blessed  sleep. 

The  breadth  of  the  sequoia  belt  here  is  about 
the  same  as  on  the  north  side  of  the  river, 
extending,  rather  thin  and  scattered  in  some 
340 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

places,  among  the  noble  pines  from  near  the 
main  forest  belt  of  the  range  well  back  towards 
the  frosty  peaks,  where  most  of  the  trees  are 
growing  on  moraines  but  little  changed  as  yet. 

Two  days'  scramble  above  Bear  Hollow  I 
enjoyed  an  interesting  interview  with  deer. 
Soon  after  sunrise  a  little  company  of  four  came 
to  my  camp  in  a  wild  garden  imbedded  in 
chaparral,  and  after  much  cautious  observation 
quietly  began  to  eat  breakfast  with  me.  Keep- 
.  ing  perfectly  still  I  soon  had  their  confidence, 
and  they  came  so  near  I  found  no  difficulty, 
while  admiring  their  graceful  manners  and  ges 
tures,  in  determining  what  plants  they  were 
eating,  thus  gaining  a  far  finer  knowledge  and 
sympathy  than  comes  by  killing  and  hunting. 

Indian  summer  gold  with  scarce  a  whisper  of 
winter  in  it  was  painting  the  glad  wilderness  in 
richer  and  yet  richer  colors  as  we  scrambled 
across  the  South  canon  into  the  basin  of  the 
Tule.  Here  the  Big  Tree  forests  are  still  more 
extensive,  and  furnished  abundance  of  work 
in  tracing  boundaries  and  gloriously  crowned 
ridges  up  and  down,  back  and  forth,  exploring, 
studying,  admiring,  while  the  great  measureless 
days  passed  on  and  away  uncounted.  But  hi 
the  calm  of  the  camp-fire  the  end  of  the  season 
seemed  near.  Brownie  too  often  brought  snow 
storms  to  mind.  He  became  doubly  jaded, 

341 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

though  I  never  rode  him,  and  always  left  him 
in  camp  to  feed  and  rest  while  I  explored.  The 
invincible  bread  business  also  troubled  me 
again;  the  last  mealy  crumbs  were  consumed, 
and  grass  was  becoming  scarce  even  in  the 
roughest  rock-piles,  naturally  inaccessible  to 
sheep.  One  afternoon,  as  I  gazed  over  the 
rolling  bossy  sequoia  billows  stretching  inter 
minably  southward,  seeking  a  way  and  count 
ing  how  far  I  might  go  without  food,  a  rifle  shot 
rang  out  sharp  and  clear.  Marking  the  direc-  - 
tion  I  pushed  gladly  on,  hoping  to  find  some 
hunter  who  could  spare  a  little  food.  Within  a 
few  hundred  rods  I  struck  the  track  of  a  shod 
horse,  which  led  to  the  camp  of  two  Indian 
shepherds.  One  of  them  was  cooking  supper 
when  I  arrived.  Glancing  curiously  at  me  he 
saw  that  I  was  hungry,  and  gave  me  some  mut 
ton  and  bread,  and  said  encouragingly  as  he 
pointed  to  the  west,  "Putty  soon  Indian  come, 
heap  speak  English."  Toward  sundown  two 
thousand  sheep  beneath  a  cloud  of  dust  came 
streaming  through  the  grand  sequoias  to  a 
meadow  below  the  camp,  and  presently  the 
English-speaking  shepherd  came  in,  to  whom 
I  explained  my  wants  and  what  I  was  doing. 
Like  most  white  men,  he  could  not  conceive 
how  anything  other  than  gold  could  be  the 
object  of  such  rambles  as  mine,  and  asked  re- 

342 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

peatedly  whether  I  had  discovered  any  mines. 
I  tried  to  make  him  talk  about  trees  and  the 
wild  animals,  but  unfortunately  he  proved  to 
be  a  tame  Indian  from  the  Tule  Reservation, 
had  been  to  school,  claimed  to  be  civilized,  and 
spoke  contemptuously  of  "wild  Indians,"  and 
so  of  course  his  inherited  instincts  were  blurred 
or  lost.  The  Big  Trees,  he  said,  grew  far  south, 
for  he  had  seen  them  in  crossing  the  mountains 
from  Porterville  to  Lone  Pine.  In  the  morning 
he  kindly  gave  me  a  few  pounds  of  flour,  and 
assured  me  that  I  would  get  plenty  more  at  a 
sawmill  on  the  South  Fork  if  I  reached  it  before 
it  was  shut  down  for  the  season. 

Of  all  the  Tule  basin  forest  the  section  on 
the  North  Fork  seemed  the  finest,  surpassing, 
I  think,  even  the  Giant  Forest  of  the  Kaweah. 
Southward  from  here,  though  the  width  and 
general  continuity  of  the  belt  is  well  sustained, 
I  thought  I  could  detect  a  slight  falling  off 
in  the  height  of  the  trees  and  in  closeness  of 
growth.  All  the  basin  was  swept  by  swarms  of 
hoofed  locusts,  the  southern  part  over  and  over 
again,  until  not  a  leaf  within  reach  was  left  on 
the  wettest  bogs,  the  outer  edges  of  the  thorn 
iest  chaparral  beds,  or  even  on  the  young 
conifers,  which,  unless  under  the  stress  of  dire 
famine,  sheep  never  touch.  Of  course  Brownie 
suffered,  though  I  made  diligent  search  for 

343 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

grassy  sheep-proof  spots.  Turning  him  loose 
one  evening  on  the  side  of  a  carex  bog,  he 
dolefully  prospected  the  desolate  neighborhood 
without  finding  anything  that  even  a  starving 
mule  could  eat.  Then,  utterly  discouraged,  he 
stole  up  behind  me  while  I  was  bent  over  on  my 
knees  making  a  fire  for  tea,  and  in  a  pitiful  mix 
ture  of  bray  and  neigh,  begged  for  help.  It  was 
a  mighty  touching  prayer,  and  I  answered  it 
as  well  as  I  could  with  half  of  what  was  left  of 
a  cake  made  from  the  last  of  the  flour  given 
me  by  the  Indians,  hastily  passing  it  over  my 
shoulder,  and  saying,  "Yes,  poor  fellow,  I 
know,  but  soon  you'll  have  plenty.  To-mor 
row  down  we  go  to  alfalfa  and  barley,"  speak 
ing  to  him  as  if  he  were  human,  as  through 
stress  of  trouble  plainly  he  was.  After  eating 
his  portion  of  bread  he  seemed  content,  for  he 
said  no  more,  but  patiently  turned  away  to 
gnaw  leafless  ceanothus  stubs.  Such  clinging, 
confiding  dependence  after  all  our  scrambles 
and  adventures  together  was  very  touching, 
and  I  felt  conscience-stricken  for  having  led 
him  so  far  in  so  rough  and  desolate  a  country. 
"Man,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "is  the  god  of  the 
dog."  So,  also,  he  is  of  the  mule  and  many 
other  dependent  fellow  mortals. 

Next  morning  I   turned  westward,   deter 
mined   to  force  a  way  straight   to  pasture, 

344 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

letting  sequoia  wait.  Fortunately  ere  we  had 
struggled  down  through  half  a  mile  of  chaparral 
we  heard  a  mill  whistle,  for  which  we  gladly 
made  a  bee  line.  At  the  sawmill  we  both  got  a 
good  meal,  then  taking  the  dusty  lumber  road 
pursued  our  way  to  the  lowlands.  The  nearest 
good  pasture  I  counted  might  be  thirty  or  forty 
miles  away.  But  scarcely  had  we  gone  ten 
when  I  noticed  a  little  log  cabin  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  back  from  the  road,  and  a  tall  man 
straight  as  a  pine  standing  in  front  of  it  observ 
ing  us  as  we  came  plodding  down  through  the 
dust.  Seeing  no  sign  of  grass  or  hay,  I  was  go 
ing  past  without  stopping,  when  he  snouted, 
"Travelin'?"  Then  drawing  nearer,  "Where 
have  you  come  from?  I  did  n't  notice  you  go 
up."  I  replied  I  had  come  through  the  woods 
from  the  north,  looking  at  the  trees.  "Oh, 
then,  you  must  be  John  Muir.  Halt,  you're 
tired;  come  and  rest  and  I'll  cook  for  you." 
Then  I  explained  that  I  was  tracing  the  sequoia 
belt,  that  on  account  of  sheep  my  mule  was 
starving,  and  therefore  must  push  on  to  the 
lowlands.  "No,  no,"  he  said,  "that  corral  over 
there  is  full  of  hay  and  grain.  Turn  your  mule 
into  it.  I  don't  own  it,  but  the  fellow  who  does 
is  hauling  lumber,  and  it  will  be  all  right.  He 's 
a  white  man.  Come  and  rest.  How  tired  you 
must  be!  The  Big  Trees  don't  go  much  farther 

345 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

south,  nohow.  I  know  the  country  up  there, 
have  hunted  all  over  it.  Come  and  rest,  and  let 
your  little  doggone  rat  of  a  mule  rest.  How  in 
heavens  did  you  get  him  across  the  canons  — 
roll  him?  or  carry  him?  He's  poor,  but  he'll 
get  fat,  and  I  '11  give  you  a  horse  and  go  with 
you  up  the  mountains,  and  while  you  're  looking 
at  the  trees  I  '11  go  hunting.  It  will  be  a  short 
job,  for  the  end  of  the  Big  Trees  is  not  far." 
Of  course  I  stopped.  No  true  invitation  is  ever 
declined.  He  had  been  hungry  and  tired  him 
self  many  a  time  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  as 
well  as  in  the  Sierra.  Now  he  owned  a  band  of 
cattle  and  lived  alone.  His  cabin  was  about 
eight  by  ten  feet,  the  dqor  at  one  end,  a  fire 
place  at  the  other,  and  a  bed  on  one  side  fas 
tened  to  the  logs.  Leading  me  in  without  a 
word  of  mean  apology,  he  made  me  lie  down  on 
the  bed,  then  reached  under  it,  brought  forth  a 
sack  of  apples  and  advised  me  to  keep  "chaw 
ing"  at  them  until  he  got  supper  ready.  Finer, 
braver  hospitality  I  never  found  in  all  this  good 
world  so  often  called  selfish. 

Next  day  with  hearty,  easy  alacrity  the 
mountaineer  procured  horses,  prepared  and 
packed  provisions,  and  got  everything  ready 
for  an  early  start  the  following  morning.  Well 
mounted,  we  pushed  rapidly  up  the  South 
Fork  of  the  river  and  soon  after  noon  were 

346 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

among  the  giants  once  more.  On  the  divide 
between  the  Tule  and  Deer  Creek  a  central 
camp  was  made,  and  the  mountaineer  spent 
his  time  in  deer-hunting,  while  with  provisions 
for  two  or  three  days  I  explored  the  woods,  and 
in  accordance  with  what  I  had  been  told  soon 
reached  the  southern  extremity  of  the  belt  on 
the  South  Fork  of  Deer  Creek.  To  make  sure, 
I  searched  the  woods  a  considerable  distance 
south  of  the  last  Deer  Creek  grove,  passed  over 
into  the  basin  of  the  Kern,  and  climbed  several 
high  points  commanding  extensive  views  over 
the  sugar-pine  woods,  without  seeing  a  single 
sequoia  crown  in  all  the  wide  expanse  to  the 
southward.  On  the  way  back  to  camp,  how 
ever,  I  was  greatly  interested  in  a  grove  I  dis 
covered  on  the  east  side  of  the  Kern  River 
divide,  opposite  the  North  Fork  of  Deer  Creek. 
The  height  of  the  pass  where  the  species  crossed 
over  is  about  seven  thousand  feet,  and  I  heard 
of  still  another  grove  whose  waters  drain  into 
the  upper  Kern  opposite  the  Middle  Fork  of 
the  Tule. 

It  appears,  therefore,  that  though  the  sequoia 
belt  is  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles  long,  most 
of  the  trees  are  on  a  section  to  the  south  of 
Kings  River  only  about  seventy  miles  in  length. 
But  though  the  area  occupied  by  the  species  in 
creases  so  much  to  the  southward,  there  is  but 
347 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

little  difference  in  the  size  of  the  trees.  A  diam 
eter  of  twenty  feet  and  height  of  two  hundred 
and  seventy-five  is  perhaps  about  the  average 
for  anything  like  mature  and  favorably  situ 
ated  trees.  Specimens  twenty-five  feet  in  diam 
eter  are  not  rare,  and  a  good  many  approach  a 
height  of  three  hundred  feet.  Occasionally  one 
meets  a  specimen  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and 
rarely  one  that  is  larger.  The  majestic  stump 
on  Kings  River  is  the  largest  I  saw  and  meas 
ured  on  the  entire  trip.  Careful  search  around 
the  boundaries  of  the  forests  and  groves  and  in 
the  gaps  of  the  belt  failed  to  discover  any  trace 
of  the  former,  existence  of  the  species  beyond 
its  present  limits.  On  the  contrary,  it  seems 
to  be  slightly  extending  its  boundaries ;  for  the 
outstanding  stragglers,  occasionally  met  a  mile 
or  two  from  the  main  bodies,  are  young  instead 
of  old  monumental  trees.  Ancient  ruins  and  the 
ditches  and  root-bowls  the  big  trunks  make  in 
falling  were  found  in  all  the  groves,  but  none 
outside  of  them.  We  may  therefore  conclude 
that  the  area  covered  by  the  species  has  not 
been  diminished  during  the  last  eight  or  ten 
thousand  years,  and  probably  not  at  all  in  post 
glacial  times.  For  admitting  that  upon  those 
areas  supposed  to  have  been  once  covered  by 
sequoia  every  tree  may  have  fallen,  and  that 
fire  and  the  weather  had  left  not  a  vestige  of 

348 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

them,  many  of  the  ditches  made  by  tne  fall  of 
the  ponderous  trunks,  weighing  five  hundred  to 
nearly  a  thousand  tons,  and  the  bowls  made  by 
their  upturned  roots  would  remain  visible  for 
thousands  of  years  after  the  last  remnants  of 
the  trees  had  vanished.  Some  of  these  records 
would  doubtless  be  effaced  in  a  comparatively 
short  time  by  the  inwashing  of  sediments,  but 
no  inconsiderable  part  of  them  would  remain 
enduringly  engraved  on  flat  ridge  tops,  almost 
wholly  free  from  such  action. 

In  the  northern  groves,  the  only  ones  that  at 
first  came  under  the  observation  of  students, 
there  are  but  few  seedlings  and  young  trees  to 
take  the  places  of  the  old  ones.  Therefore  the 
species  was  regarded  as  doomed  to  speedy  ex 
tinction,  as  being  only  an  expiring  remnant 
vanquished  in  the  so-called  struggle  for  life, 
and  shoved  into  its  last  strongholds  in  moist 
glens  where  conditions  are  exceptionally  favor 
able.  But  the  majestic  continuous  forests  of 
the  south  end  of  the  belt  create  a  very  differ 
ent  impression.  Here,  as  we  have  seen,  no  tree 
in  the  forest  is  more  enduringly  established. 
Nevertheless  it  is  oftentimes  vaguely  said  that 
the  Sierra  climate  is  drying  out,  and  that  this 
oncoming,  constantly  increasing  drought  will  of 
itself  surely  extinguish  King  Sequoia,  though 
sections  of  wood-rings  show  that  there  has  been 

349 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

no  appreciable  change  of  climate  during  the 
last  forty  centuries.  Furthermore,  that  sequoia 
can  grow  and  is  growing  on  as  dry  ground  as 
any  of  its  neighbors  or  rivals,  we  have  seen 
proved  over  and  over  again.  "Why,  then,"  it 
will  be  asked,  "are  the  Big  Tree  groves  always 
found  on  well-watered  spots?  "  Simply  because 
Big  Trees  give  rise  to  streams.  It  is  a  mis 
take  to  suppose  that  the  water  is  the  cause  of 
the  groves  being  there.  On  the  contrary,  the 
groves  are  the  cause  of  the  water  being  there. 
The  roots  of  this  immense  tree  fill  the  ground, 
forming  a  sponge  which  hoards  the  bounty  of 
the  clouds  and  sends  it  forth  in  clear  perennial 
streams  instead  of  allowing  it  to  rush  headlong 
in  short-lived  destructive  floods.  Evaporation 
is  also  checked,  and  the  air  kept  still  in  the 
shady  sequoia  depths,  while  thirsty  robber 
winds  are  shut  out. 

Since,  then,  it  appears  that  sequoia  can  and 
does  grow  on  as  dry  ground  as  its  neighbors  and 
that  the  greater  moisture  found  with  it  is  an 
effect  rather  than  a  cause  of  its  presence,  the 
notions  as  to  the  former  greater  extension  of 
the  species  and  its  near  approach  to  extinction, 
based  on  its  supposed  dependence  on  greater 
moisture,  are  seen  to  be  erroneous.  Indeed,  all 
my  observations  go  to  show  that  in  case  of  pro 
longed  drought  the  sugar  pines  and  firs  would 

350 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

die  before  sequoia.  Again,  if  the  restricted  and 
irregular  distribution  of  the  species  be  inter 
preted  as  the  result  of  the  desiccation  of  the 
range,  then,  instead  of  increasing  in  individuals 
toward  the  south,  where  the  rainfall  is  less,  it 
should  diminish. 

If,  then,  its  peculiar  distribution  has  not  been 
governed  by  superior  conditions  of  soil  and 
moisture,  by  what  has  it  been  governed?  Sev 
eral  years  before  I  made  this  trip,  I  noticed 
that  the  northern  groves  were  located  on  those 
parts  of  the  Sierra  soil-belt  that  were  first  laid 
bare  and  opened  to  preemption  when  the  ice- 
sheet  began  to  break  up  into  individual  gla 
ciers.  And  when  I  was  examining  the  basin  of 
the  San  Joaquin  and  trying  to  account  for  the 
absence  of  sequoia,  when  every  condition 
seemed  favorable  for  its  growth,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  this  remarkable  gap  in  the  belt  is  lo 
cated  in  the  channel  of  the  great  ancient  glacier 
of  the  San  Joaquin  and  Kings  River  basins, 
which  poured  its  frozen  floods  to  the  plain,  fed 
by  the  snows  that  fell  on  more  than  fifty  miles 
of  the  Summit  peaks  of  the  range.  Constantly 
brooding  on  the  question,  I  next  perceived  that 
the  great  gap  in  the  belt  to  the  northward, 
forty  miles  wide,  between  the  Stanislaus  and 
Tuolumne  groves,  occurs  in  the  channel  of  the 
great  Stanislaus  and  Tuolumne  glacier,  and 

351 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

that  the  smaller  gap  between  the  Merced  and 
Mariposa  groves  occurs  in  the  channel  of  the 
smaller  Merced  glacier.  The  wider  the  ancient 
glacier,  the  wider  the  gap  in  the  sequoia  belt, 
while  the  groves  and  forests  attain  their  great 
est  development  in  the  Kaweah  and  Tule  River 
basins,  just  where,  owing  to  topographical  con 
ditions,  the  region  was  first  cleared  and  warmed, 
while  protected  from  the  main  ice-rivers,  that 
flowed  past  to  right  and  left  down  the  Kings 
and  Kern  valleys.  In  general,  where  the  ground 
on  the  belt  was  first  cleared  of  ice,  there  the 
sequoia  now  is,  and  where  at  the  same  eleva 
tion  and  time  the  ancient  glaciers  lingered, 
there  the  sequoia  is  not.  What  the  other  condi 
tions  may  have  been  which  enabled  the  sequoia 
to  establish  itself  upon  these  oldest  and  warm 
est  parts  of  the  main  soil-belt  I  cannot  say.  I 
might  venture  to  state,  however,  that  since  the 
sequoia  forests  present  a  more  and  more  ancient 
and  long  established  aspect  to  the  southward, 
the  species  was  probably  distributed  from  the 
south  toward  the  close  of  the  glacial  period, 
before  the  arrival  of  other  trees.  About  this 
branch  of  the  question,  however,  there  is  at 
present  much  fog,  but  the  general  relationship 
we  have  pointed  out  between  the  distribution 
of  the  Big  Tree  and  the  ancient  glacial  system 
is  clear.  And  when  we  bear  in  mind  that  all  the 

352 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

existing  forests  of  the  Sierra  are  growing  on 
comparatively  fresh  moraine  soil,  and  that  th'e 
range  itself  has  been  recently  sculptured  and 
brought  to  light  from  beneath  the  ice-mantle 
of  the  glacial  winter,  then  many  lawless  mys 
teries  vanish,  and  harmonies  take  their  places. 
But  notwithstanding  all  the  observed  phe 
nomena  bearing  on  the  post-glacial  history  of 
this  colossal  tree  point  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  never  was  more  widely  distributed  on  the 
Sierra  since  the  close  of  the  glacial  epoch ;  that 
its  present  forests  are  scarcely  past  prime,  if, 
indeed,  they  have  reached  prime;  that  the  post 
glacial  day  of  the  species  is  probably  not  half 
done;  yet,  when  from  a  wider  outlook  the  vast 
antiquity  of  the  genus  is  considered,  and  its 
ancient  richness  in  species  and  individuals, 
comparing  our  Sierra  giant  and  Sequoia  sem- 
pervirens  of  the  coast,  the  only  other  living 
species,  with  the  many  fossil  species  already 
discovered,  and  described  by  Heer  and  Les- 
quereux,  some  of  which,  flourished  over  large 
areas  around  the  Arctic  Circle,  and  in  Europe 
and  our  own  territories,  during  tertiary  and 
cretaceous  times,  —  then,  indeed,  it  becomes 
plain  that  our  two  surviving  species,  restricted 
to  narrow  belts  within  the  limits  of  California, 
are  mere  remnants  of  the  genus  both  as  to 
species  and  individuals,  and  that  they  prob- 

353 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ably  are  verging  to  extinction.  But  the  verge 
of  a  period  beginning  in  cretaceous  times  may 
have  a  breadth  of  tens  of  thousands  of  years, 
not  to  mention  the  possible  existence  of  condi 
tions  calculated  to  multiply  and  reextend  both 
species  and  individuals.  No  unfavorable  change 
of  climate,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  no  disease,  but 
only  fire  and  the  axe  and  the  ravages  of  flocks 
and  herds  threaten  the  existence  of  these 
noblest  of  God's  trees.  In  Nature's  keeping 
they  are  safe,  but  through  man's  agency  de 
struction  is  making  rapid  progress,  while  in 
the  work  of  protection  only  a  beginning  has 
been  made.  The  Mariposa  Grove  belongs  to 
and  is  guarded  by  the  State ;  the  General  Grant 
and  Sequoia  National  Parks,  established  ten 
years  ago,  are  efficiently  guarded  by  a  troop  of 
cavalry  under  the  direction  of  the  Secretary  of 
the  Interior;  so  also  are  the  small  Tuolumne 
and  Merced  groves,  which  are  included  in  the 
Yosemite  National  Park,  while  a  few  scattered 
patches  and  fringes,  .scarce  at  all  protected, 
though  belonging  to  the  National  Government, 
are  in  the  Sierra  Forest  Reservation. 

Perhaps  more  than  half  of  all  the  Big  Trees 
have  been  sold,  and  are  now  in  the  hands  of 
speculators  and  mill  men.  Even  the  beautiful 
little  Calaveras  Grove  of  ninety  trees,  so  his 
torically  interesting  from  its  being  the  first 

354 


SEQUOIA  AND  GRANT  PARKS 

discovered,  is  now  owned,  together  with  the 
much  larger  South  or  Stanislaus  Grove,  by  a 
lumber  company. 

Far  the  largest  and  most  important  section 
of  protected  Big  Trees  is  in  the  grand  Sequoia 
National  Park,  now  easily  accessible  by  stage 
from  Visalia.  It  contains  seven  townships  and 
extends  across  the  whole  breadth  of  the  mag 
nificent  Kaweah  basin.  But  large  as  it  is,  it 
should  be  made  much  larger.  Its  natural  east 
ern  boundary  is  the  high  Sierra,  and  the  north 
ern  and  southern  boundaries,  the  Kings  and 
Kern  rivers,  thus  including  the  sublime  scenery 
on  the  headwaters  of  these  rivers  and  perhaps 
nine  tenths  of  all  the  Big  Trees  in  existence. 
Private  claims  cut  and  blotch  both  of  the 
sequoia  parks  as  well  as  all  the  best  of  the 
forests,  every  one  of  which  the  Government 
should  gradually  extinguish  by  purchase,  as  it 
readily  may,  for  none  of  these  holdings  are  of 
much  value  to  their  owners.  Thus  as  far  as 
possible  the  grand  blunder  of  selling  would  be 
corrected.  The  value  of  these  forests  in  storing 
and  dispensing  the  bounty  of  the  mountain 
clouds  is  infinitely  greater  than  lumber  or 
sheep.  To  the  dwellers  of  the  plain,  dependent 
on  irrigation,  the  Big  Tree,  leaving  all  its 
higher  uses  out  of  the  count,  is  a  tree  of  life,  a 
never-failing  spring,  sending  living  water  to 

355 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

the  lowlands  all  through  the  hot,  rainless  sum 
mer.  For  every  grove  cut  down  a  stream  is 
dried  up.  Therefore,  all  California  is  crying, 
"Save  the  trees  of  the  fountains,"  nor,  judging 
by  the  signs  of  the  times,  is  it  likely  that  the 
.cry  will  cease  until  the  salvation  of  all  that  is 
left  of  Sequoia  gigantea  is  sure. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   AMERICAN   FORESTS 

THE  forests  of  America,  however  slighted  by 
man,  must  have  been  a  great  delight  to  God; 
for  they  were  the  best  He  ever  planted.  The 
whole  continent  was  a  garden,  and  from  the 
beginning  it  seemed  to  be  favored  above  all  the 
other  wild  parks  and  gardens  of  the  globe.  To 
prepare  the  ground,  it  was  rolled  and  sifted  in 
seas  with  infinite  loving  deliberation  and  fore 
thought,  lifted  into  the  light,  submerged  and 
warmed  over  and  over  again,  pressed  and  crum 
pled  into  folds  and  ridges,  mountains,  and  hills, 
subsoiled  with  heaving  volcanic  fires,  ploughed 
and  ground  and  sculptured  into  scenery  and 
soil  with  glaciers  and  rivers,  —  every  feature 
growing  and  changing  from  beauty  to  beauty, 
higher  and  higher.  And  in  the  fullness  of  time 
it  was  planted  in  groves,  and  belts,  and  broad, 
exuberant,  mantling  forests,  with  the  largest, 
most  varied,  most  fruitful,  and  most  beautiful 
trees  in  the  world.  Bright  seas  made  its  border, 
with  wave  embroidery  and  icebergs;  gray  des 
erts  were  outspread  in  the  middle  of  it,  mossy 
tundras  on  the  north,  savannas  on  the  south, 
and  blooming  prairies  and  plains;  while  lakes 

357 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  rivers  shone  through  all  the  vast  forests 
and  openings,  and  happy  birds  and  beasts  gave 
delightful  animation.  Everywhere,  everywhere 
over  all  the  blessed  continent,  there  were  beauty 
and  melody  and  kindly,  wholesome,  foodful 
abundance. 

These  forests  were  composed  of  about  five 
hundred  species  of  trees,  all  of  them  in  some 
way  useful  to  man,  ranging  in  size  from  twenty- 
five  feet  in  height  and  less  than  one  foot  in 
diameter  at  the  ground  to  four  hundred  feet  in 
height  and  more  than  twenty  feet  in  diameter, 
-  lordly  monarchs  proclaiming  the  gospel  of 
beauty  like  apostles.  For  many  a  century  after 
the  ice-ploughs  were  melted,  nature  fed  them 
and  dressed  them  every  day,  —  working  like  a 
man,  a  loving,  devoted,  painstaking  gardener; 
fingering  every  leaf  and  flower  and  mossy  fur 
rowed  bole;  bending,  trimming,  modeling,  bal 
ancing;  painting  them  with  the  loveliest  colors; 
bringing  over  .them  now  clouds  with  cooling 
shadows  and  showers,  now  sunshine;  fanning 
them  with  gentle  winds  and  rustling  then- 
leaves;  exercising  them  in  every  fiber  with 
storms,  and  pruning  them;  loading  them  with 
flowers  and  fruit,  loading  them  with  snow,  and 
ever  making  them  more  beautiful  as  the  years 
rolled  by.  Wide-branching  oak  and  elm  in  end 
less  variety,  walnut  and  maple,  chestnut  and 

358 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

beech,  ilex  and  locust,  touching  limb  to  limb, 
spread  a  leafy  translucent  canopy  along  the 
coast  of  the  Atlantic  over  the  wrinkled  folds 
and  ridges  of  the  Alleghanies,  —  a  green  bil 
lowy  sea  in  summer,  golden  and  purple  in  au 
tumn,  pearly  gray  like  a  steadfast  frozen  mist 
of  interlacing  branches  and  sprays  in  leafless, 
restful  winter. 

To  the  southward  stretched  dark,  level- 
topped  cypresses  in  knobby,  tangled  swamps, 
grassy  savannas  in  the  midst  of  them  like  lakes 
of  light,  groves  of  gay,  sparkling  spice-trees, 
magnolias  and  palms,  glossy-leaved  and  bloom 
ing  and  shining  continually.  To  the  northward, 
over  Maine  and  Ottawa,  rose  hosts  of  spiry, 
rosiny  evergreens,  —  white  pine  and  spruce, 
hemlock  and  cedar,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  laden 
with  purple  cones,  their  myriad  needles  spark 
ling  and  shimmering,  covering  hills  and  swamps, 
rocky  headlands  and  domes,  ever  bravely 
aspiring  and  seeking  the  sky;  the  ground  in 
their  shade  now  snow-clad  and  frozen,  now 
mossy  and  flowery;  beaver  meadows  here  and 
there,  full  of  lilies  and  grass;  lakes  gleaming 
like  eyes,  and  a  silvery  embroidery  of  rivers 
and  creeks  watering  and  brightening  all  the 
vast  glad  wilderness. 

Thence  westward  were  oak  and  elm,  hickory 
and  tupelo,  gum  and  liriodendron,  sassafras 
359 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

and  ash,  linden  and  laurel,  spreading  on  ever 
wider  in  glorious  exuberance  over  the  great 
fertile  basin  of  the  Mississippi,  over  damp  level 
bottoms,  low  dimpling  hollows,  and  round  dot 
ting  hills,  embosoming  sunny  prairies  and 
cheery  park  openings,  half  sunshine,  half  shade; 
while  a  dark  wilderness  of  pines  covered  the 
region  around  the  Great  Lakes.  Thence  still 
westward  swept  the  forests  to  right  and  left 
around  grassy  plains  and  deserts  a  thousand 
miles  wide:  irrepressible  hosts  of  spruce  and 
pine,  aspen  and  willow,  nut-pine  and  juniper, 
cactus  and  yucca,  caring  nothing  for  drought, 
extending  undaunted  from  mountain  to  moun 
tain,  over  mesa  and  desert,  to  join  the  darken 
ing  multitudes  of  pines  that  covered  the  high 
Rocky  ranges  and  the  glorious  forests  along  the 
coast  of  the  moist  and  balmy  Pacific,  where  new 
species  of  pine,  giant  cedars  and  spruces,  silver 
firs  and  sequoias,  kings  of  their  race,  growing 
close  together  like  grass  in  a  meadow,  poised 
their  brave  domes  and  spires  in  the  sky,  three 
hundred  feet  above  the  ferns  and  the  lilies  that 
enameled  the  ground ;  towering  serene  through 
the  long  centuries,  preaching  God's  forestry 
fresh  from  heaven. 

Here  the  forests  reached  their  highest  devel 
opment.  Hence  they  went  wavering  northward 
over  icy  Alaska,  brave  spruce  and  fir,  poplar 

360 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

and  birch,  by  the  coasts  and  the  rivers,  tc 
within  sight  of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  American, 
forests!  the  glory  of  the  world!  Surveyed  thus 
from  the  east  to  the  west,  from  the  north  to 
the  south,  they  are  rich  beyond  thought,  im 
mortal,  immeasurable,  enough  and  to  spare  for 
every  feeding,  sheltering  beast  and  bird,  insect 
and  son  of  Adam;  and  nobody  need  have  cared 
had  there  been  no  pines  in  Norway,  no  cedars 
and  deodars  on  Lebanon  and  the  Himalayas, 
no  vine-clad  selvas  in  the  basin  of  the  Amazon. 
With  such  variety,  harmony,  and  triumphant 
exuberance,  even  nature,  it  would  seem,  might 
have  rested  content  with  the  forests  of  North 
America,  and  planted  no  more. 

So  they  appeared  a  few  centuries  ago  when 
they  were  rejoicing  in  wildness.  The  Indians 
with  stone  axes  could  do  them  no  more  harm 
than  could  gnawing  beavers  and  browsing 
moose.  Even  the  fires  of  the  Indians  and  the 
fierce  shattering  lightning  seemed  to  work  to 
gether  only  for  good  in  clearing  spots  here  and 
there  for  smooth  garden  prairies,  and  openings 
for  sunflowers  seeking  the  light.  But  when  the 
steel  axe  of  the  white  man  rang  out  on  the 
startled  air  their  doom  was  sealed.  Every  tree 
heard  the  bodeful  sound,  and  pillars  of  smoke 
gave  the  sign  in  the  sky. 

I  suppose  we  need  not  go  mourning  the  buf- 

361 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

faloes.  In  the  nature  of  things  they  had  to  give 
place  to  better  cattle,  though  the  change  might 
have  been  made  without  barbarous  wickedness. 
Likewise  many  of  nature's  five  hundred  kinds 
of  wild  trees  had  to  make  way  for  orchards 
and  cornfields.  In  the  settlement  and  civiliza 
tion  of  the  country,  bread  more  than  timber 
or  beauty  was  wanted;  and  in  the  blindness  of 
hunger,  the  early  settlers,  claiming  Hea'ven  as 
their  guide,  regarded  God's  trees  as  only  a 
larger  kind  of  pernicious  weeds,  extremely  hard 
to  get  rid  of.  Accordingly,  with  no  eye  to  the 
future,  these  pious  destroyers  waged  intermi 
nable  forest  wars;  chips  flew  thick  and  fast; 
trees  in  their  beauty  fell  crashing  by  millions, 
smashed  to  confusion,  and  the  smoke  of  their 
burning  has  been  rising  to  heaven  more  than 
two  hundred  years.  After  the  Atlantic  coast 
from  Maine  to  Georgia  had  been  mostly  cleared 
and  scorched  into  melancholy  ruins,  the  over 
flowing  multitude  of  bread  and  money  seekers 
poured  over  the  Alleghanies  into  the  fertile 
middle  West,  spreading  ruthless  devastation 
ever  wider  and  farther  over  the  rich  valley  of 
the  Mississippi  and  the  vast  shadowy  pine 
region  about  the  Great  Lakes.  Thence  still 
westward,  the  invading  horde  of  destroyers 
called  settlers  made  its  fiery  way  over  the  broad 
Rocky  Mountains,  felling  and  burning  more 

362 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

fiercely  than  ever,  until  at  last  it  has  reached 
the  wild  side  of  the  continent,  and  entered  the 
last  of  the  great  aboriginal  forests  on  the  shores 
of  the  Pacific. 

Surely,  then,  it  should  not  be  wondered  at 
that  lovers  of  their  country,  bewailing  its  bald 
ness,  are  now  crying  aloud,  "Save  what  is  left 
of  the  forests!"  Clearing  has  surely  now  gone 
far  enough ;  soon  timber  will  be  scarce,  and  not 
a  grove  will  be  left  to  rest  in  or  pray  in.  The 
remnant  protected  will  yield  plenty  of  timber, 
a  perennial  harvest  for  every  right  use,  without 
further  diminution  of  its  area,  and  will  continue 
to  cover  the  springs  of  the  rivers  that  rise  hi  the 
mountains  and  give  irrigating  waters  to  the 
dry  valleys  at  their  feet,  prevent  wasting  floods 
and  be  a  blessing  to  everybody  forever. 

Every  other  civilized  nation  in  the  world  has 
been  compelled  to  care  for  its  forests,  and  so 
must  we  if  waste  and  destruction  are  not  to  go 
on  to  the  bitter  end,  leaving  America  as  barren 
as  Palestine  or  Spain.  In  its  calmer  moments, 
in  the  midst  of  bewildering  hunger  and  war  and 
restless  over-industry,  Prussia  has  learned  that 
the  forest  plays  an  important  part  in  human 
progress,  and  that  the  advance  in  civilization 
only  makes  it  more  indispensable.  It  has, 
therefore,  as  shown  by  Mr.  Pinchot,  refused  to 
deliver  its  forests  to  more  or  less  speedy  de- 

363 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

struct/ion  by  permitting  them  to  pass  into  pri 
vate  ownership.  But  the  state  woodlands  are 
not  allowed  to  lie  idle.  On  the  contrary,  they 
are  made  to  produce  as  much  timber  as  is  pos 
sible  without  spoiling  them.  In  the  adminis 
tration  of  its  forests,  the  state  righteously  con 
siders  itself  bound  to  treat  them  as  a  trust  for 
the  nation  as  a  whole,  and  to  keep  in  view  the 
common  good  of  the  people  for  all  time. 

In  France  no  government  forests  have  been 
sold  since  1870.  On  the  other  hand,  about  one 
half  of  the  fifty  million  francs  spent  on  forestry 
has  been  given  to  engineering  works,  to  make 
the  replanting  of  denuded  areas  possible.  The 
disappearance  of  the  forests  in  the  first  place,  it 
is  claimed,  may  be  traced  in  most  cases  directly 
to  mountain  pasturage.  The  provisions  of  the 
Code  concerning  private  woodlands  are  sub 
stantially  these:  no  private  owner  may  clear 
his  woodlands  without  giving  notice  to  the 
government  at  least  four  months  in  advance, 
and  the  forest  service  may  forbid  the  clearing 
on  the  following  grounds,  —  to  maintain  the 
soil  on  mountains,  to  defend  the  soil  against 
erosion  and  flooding  by  rivers  or  torrents,  to 
insure  the  existence  of  springs  or  watercourses, 
to  protect  the  dunes  and  seashore,  etc.  A  pro 
prietor  who  has  cleared  his  forest  without 
permission  is  subject  to  heavy  fine,  and  in 

364 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

addition  may  be  made  to  replant  the  cleared 
area. 

In  Switzerland,  after  many  laws  like  our  own 
had  been  found  wanting,  the  Swiss  forest  school 
was  established  in  1865,  and  soon  after  the  fed 
eral  forest  law  was  enacted,  which  is  binding 
over  nearly  two  thirds  of  the  country.  Under 
its  provisions,  the  cantons  must  appoint  and 
pay  the  number  of  suitably  educated  foresters 
required  for  the  fulfillment  of  the  forest  law; 
and  in  the  organization  of  a  normally  stocked 
forest,  the  object  of  first  importance  must  be 
the  cutting  each  year  of  an  amount  of  timber 
equal  to  the  total  annual  increase,  and  no  more. 

The  Russian  government  passed  a  law  in 
1888,  declaring  that  clearing  is  forbidden  in 
protected  forests,  and  is  allowed  hi  others  "only 
when  its  effects  will  not  be  to  disturb  the  suit 
able  relations  which  should  exist  between  forest 
and  agricultural  lands." 

Even  Japan  is  ahead  of  us  in  the  manage 
ment  of  her  forests.  They  cover  an  area  of 
about  twenty-nine  million  acres.  The  feudal 
lords  valued  the  woodlands,  and  enacted  vigor 
ous  protective  laws;  and  when,  in  the  latest 
civil  war,  the  Mikado  government  destroyed 
the  feudal  system,  it  declared  the  forests  that 
had  belonged  to  the  feudal  lords  to  be  the  prop 
erty  of  the  state,  promulgated  a  forest  law  bind- 

365 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

ing  on  the  whole  kingdom,  and  founded  a 
school  of  forestry  in  Tokio.  The  forest  service 
does  not  rest  satisfied  with  the  present  propor 
tion  of  woodland,  but  looks  to  planting  the  best 
forest  trees  it  can  find  in  any  country,  if  likely 
to  be  useful  and  to  thrive  in  Japan. 

In  India  systematic  forest  management  was 
begun  about  forty  years  ago,  under  difficulties 

-  presented  by  the  character  of  the  country, 
the  prevalence  of  running  fires,  opposition  from 
lumbermen,  settlers,  etc.  —  not  unlike  those 
which  confront  us  now.    Of  the  total  area  of 
government  forests,  perhaps  seventy  million 
acres,  fifty-five  million  acres  have  been  brought 
under  the  control  of  the  forestry  department, 

-  a  larger  area  than  that  of  all  our  national 
parks  and  reservations.   The  chief  aims  of  the 
administration  are  effective  protection  of  the 
forests  from  fire,  an  efficient  system  of  regen 
eration,  and  cheap  transportation  of  the  forest 
products;  the  results  so  far  have  been  most 
beneficial  and  encouraging. 

It  seems,  therefore,  that  almost  every  civil 
ized  nation  can  give  us  a  lesson  on  the  manage 
ment  and  care  of  forests.  So  far  our  Government 
has  done  nothing  effective  with  its  forests, 
though  the  best  in  the  world,  but  is  like  a  rich 
and  foolish  spendthrift  who  has  inherited  a 
magnificent  estate  in  perfect  order,  and  then 
366 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

has  left  his  fields  and  meadows,  forests  and 
parks,  to  be  sold  and  plundered  and  wasted  at 
will,  depending  on  their  inexhaustible  abun 
dance.  Now  it  is  plain  that  the  forests  are  not 
inexhaustible,  and  that  quick  measures  must 
be  taken  if  ruin  is  to  be  avoided.  Year  by  year 
the  remnant  is  growing  smaller  before  the  axe 
and  fire,  while  the  laws  in  existence  provide 
neither  for  the  protection  of  the  timber  from 
destruction  nor  for  its  use  where  it  is  most 
needed. 

As  is  shown  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Bowers,  formerly 
Inspector  of  the  Public  Land  Service,  the  foun 
dation  of  our  protective  policy,  which  has  never 
protected,  is  an  act  passed  March  1,  1817, 
which  authorized  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy 
to  reserve  lands  producing  live-oak  and  cedar, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  supplying  timber  for  the 
navy  of  the  United  States.  An  extension  of  this 
law  by  the  passage  of  the  act  of  March  2, 1831, 
provided  that  if  any  person  should  cut  live- 
oak  or  red  cedar  trees  or  other  timber  from  the 
lands  of  the  United  States  for  any  other  pur 
pose  than  the  construction  of  the  navy,  such 
person  should  pay  a  fine  not  less  than  triple  the 
value  of  the  timber  cut,  and  be  imprisoned  for 
a  period  not  exceeding  twelve  months.  Upon 
this  old  law,  as  Mr.  Bowers  points  out,  having 
the  construction  of  a  wooden  navy  in  view,  the 

367 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

United  States  Government  has  to-day  chiefly 
to  rely  in  protecting  its  timber  throughout  the 
arid  regions  of  the  West,  where  none  of  the 
naval  timber  which  the  law  had  in  mind  is  to  be 
found. 

By  the  act  of  June  3,  1878,  timber  can  be 
taken  from  public  lands  not  subject  to  entry 
under  any  existing  laws  except  for  minerals, 
by  bona  fide  residents  of  the  Rocky  Mountain 
States  and  Territories  and  the  Dakotas.  Under 
the  timber  and  stone  act,  of  the  same  date, 
land  in  the  Pacific  States  and  Nevada,  valu 
able  mainly  for  timber,  and  unfit  for  cultiva 
tion  if  the  timber  is  removed,  can  be  purchased 
for  two  dollars  and  a  half  an  acre,  under  certain 
restrictions.  By  the  act  of  March  3,  1875,  all 
land-grant  and  right-of-way  railroads  are  au 
thorized  to  take  timber  from  the  public  lands 
adjacent  to  their  lines  for  construction  pur 
poses  ;  and  they  have  taken  it  with  a  vengeance, 
destroying  a  hundred  times  more  than  they 
have  used,  mostly  by  allowing  fires  to  run  in  the 
woods.  The  settlement  laws,  under  which  a 
settler  may  enter  lands  valuable  for  timber  as 
well  as  for  agriculture,  furnish  another  means 
of  obtaining  title  to  public  timber. 

With  the  exception  of  the  timber  culture  act, 
under  which,  in  consideration  of  planting  a  few 
acres  of  seedlings,  settlers  on  the  treeless  plains 
368 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

got  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  each,  the  above 
is  the  only  legislation  aiming  to  protect  and 
promote  the  planting  of  forests.  In  no  other 
way  than  under  some  one  of  these  laws  can  a 
citizen  of  the  United  States  make  any  use  of  the 
public  forests.  To  show  the  results  of  the  tim 
ber-planting  act,  it  need  only  be  stated  that  of 
the  thirty-eight  million  acres  entered  under  it, 
less  than  one  million  acres  have  been  patented. 
This  means  that  less  than  fifty  thousand  acres 
have  been  planted  with  stunted,  woebegone, 
almost  hopeless  sprouts  of  trees,  while  at  the 
same  time  the  Government  has  allowed  millions 
of  acres  of  the  grandest  forest  trees  to  be  stolen 
or  destroyed,  or  sold  for  nothing.  Under  the 
act  of  June  3,  1878,  settlers  in  Colorado  and 
the  Territories  were  allowed  to  cut  timber  for 
mining  and  educational  purposes  from  mineral 
land,  which  in  the  practical  West  means  both 
cutting  and  burning  anywhere  and  every 
where,  for  any  purpose,  on  any  sort  of  public 
land.  Thus,  the  prospector,  the  miner,  and 
mining  and  railroad  companies  are  allowed  by 
law  to  take  all  the  timber  they  like  for  their 
mines  and  roads,  and  the  forbidden  settler,  if 
there  are  no  mineral  lands  near  his  farm  or 
stock-ranch,  or  none  that  he  knows  of,  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  forbear  taking  what  he 
needs  wherever  he  can  find  it.  Timber  is  as 
369 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

necessary  as  bread,  and  no  scheme  of  manage 
ment  failing  to  recognize  and  properly  provide 
for  this  want  can  possibly  be  maintained.  In 
any  case,  it  will  be  hard  to  teach  the  pioneers 
that  it  is  wrong  to  steal  government  timber. 
Taking  from  the  Government  is  with  them  the 
same  as  taking  from  nature,  and  their  con 
sciences  flinch  no  more  in  cutting  timber  from 
the  wild  forests  than  in  drawing  water  from  a 
lake  or  river.  As  for  reservation  and  protection 
of  forests,  it  seems  as  silly  and  needless  to  them 
as  protection  and  reservation  of  the  ocean 
would  be,  both  appearing  to  be  boundless  and 
inexhaustible. 

The  special  land  agents  employed  by  the 
General  Land  Office  to  protect  the  public  do 
main  from  timber  depredations  are  supposed  to 
collect  testimony  to  sustain  prosecution  and  to 
superintend  such  prosecution  on  behalf  of  the 
Government,  which  is  represented  by  the  dis 
trict  attorneys.  But  timber  thieves  of  the 
Western  class  are  seldom  convicted,  for  the 
good  reason  that  most  of  the  jurors  who  try 
such  cases  are  themselves  as  guilty  as  those  on 
trial.  The  effect  of  the  present  confused,  dis 
criminating,  and  unjust  system  has  been  to 
place  almost  the  whole  population  in  opposi 
tion  to  the  Government;  and  as  conclusive  of 
its  futility,  as  shown  by  Mr.  Bowers,  we  need 

370 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

only  state  that  during  the  seven  years  from 
1881  to  1887  inclusive,  the  value  of  the  timber 
reported  stolen  from  the  government  lands  was 
$36,719,935,  and  the  amount  recovered  was 
$478,073,  while  the  cost  of  the  services  of  spe 
cial  agents  alone  was  $455,000,  to  which  must 
be  added  the  expense  of  the  trials.  Thus  for 
nearly  thirty-seven  million  dollars'  worth  of 
timber  the  Government  got  less  than  nothing; 
and  the  value  of  that  consumed  by  running 
fires  during  the  same  period,  without  benefit 
even  to  thieves,  was  probably  over  two  hun 
dred  millions  of  dollars.  Land  Commissioners 
and  Secretaries  of  the  Interior  have  repeatedly 
called  attention  to  this  ruinous  state  of  affairs, 
and  asked  Congress  to  enact  the  requisite  leg 
islation  for  reasonable  reform.  But,  busied 
with  tariffs,  etc.,  Congress  has  given  no  heed  to 
these  or  other  appeals,  and  our  forests,  the  most 
valuable  and  the  most  destructible  of  all  the 
natural  resources  of  the  country,  are  being 
robbed  and  burned  faster  than  ever.  The  an 
nual  appropriation  for  so-called  "  protection 
service"  is  hardly  sufficient  to  keep  twenty- 
five  timber  agents  in  the  field,  and  as  far  as 
efficient  protection  of  timber  is  concerned  the 
agents  themselves  might  as  well  be  timber.1 

1  A  change  for  the  better,  compelled  by  public  opinion, 
is  now  going  on. 

371 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

That  a  change  from  robbery  and  ruin  to  a 
permanent  rational  policy  is  urgently  needed 
nobody  with  the  slightest  knowledge  of  Amer 
ican  forests  will  deny.  In  the  East  and  along 
the  northern  Pacific  coast,  where  the  rainfall  is 
abundant,  comparatively  few  care  keenly  what 
becomes  of  the  trees  so  long  as  fuel  and  lumber 
are  not  noticeably  dear.  But  in  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  California  and  Arizona,  where 
the  forests  are  inflammable,  and  where  the  fer 
tility  of  the  lowlands  depends  upon  irrigation, 
public  opinion  is  growing  stronger  every  year 
in  favor  of  permanent  protection  by  the  Federal 
Government  of  all  the  forests  that  cover  the 
sources  of  the  streams.  Even  lumbermen  hi 
these  regions,  long  accustomed  to  steal,  are 
now  willing  and  anxious  to  buy  lumber  for  their 
mills  under  cover  of  law :  some  possibly  from  a 
late  second  growth  of  honesty,  but  most,  espe 
cially  the  small  mill-owners,  simply  because  it 
no  longer  pays  to  steal  where  all  may  not  only 
steal,  but  also  destroy,  and  in  particular  be 
cause  it  costs  about  as  much  to  steal  timber  for 
one  mill  as  for  ten,  and,  therefore,  the  ordinary 
lumberman  can  no  longer  compete  with  the 
large  corporations.  Many  of  the  miners  find 
that  timber  is  already  becoming  scarce  and 
dear  on  the  denuded  hills  around  their  mills, 
and  they,  too,  are  asking  for  protection  of  for- 

372 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

ests,  at  least  against  fire.  The  slow-going,  un 
thrifty  farmers,  also,  are  beginning  to  realize 
that  when  the  timber  is  stripped  from  the 
mountains  the  irrigating  streams  dry  up  in 
summer,  and  are  destructive  in  winter;  that 
soil,  scenery,  and  everything  slips  off  with  the 
trees:  so  of  course  they  are  coming  into  the 
ranks  of  tree-friends. 

Of  all  the  magnificent  coniferous  forests 
around  the  Great  Lakes,  once  the  property  of 
the  United  States,  scarcely  any  belong  to  it 
now.  They  have  disappeared  in  lumber  and 
smoke,  mostly  smoke,  and  the  Government  got 
not  one  cent  for  them;  only  the  land  they  were 
growing  on  was  considered  valuable,  and  two 
and  a  half  dollars  an  acre  was  charged  for  it. 
Here  and  there  in  the  Southern  States  there  are 
still  considerable  areas  of  timbered  government 
land,  but  these  are  comparatively  unimportant. 
Only  the  forests  of  the  West  are  significant  in 
size  and  value,  and  these,  although  still  great, 
are  rapidly  vanishing.  Last  summer,  of  the 
unrivaled  redwood  forests  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
Range,  the  United  States  Forestry  Commission 
could  not  find  a  single  quarter-section  that  re 
mained  in  the  hands  of  the  Government.1 

1  The  State  of  California  recently  appropriated  two  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to  buy  a  block  of  redwood  land 
near  Santa  Cruz  for  a  state  park.  A  much  larger  national 
park  should  be  made  in  Humboldt  or  Mendocino  County. 

373 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

Under  the  timber  and  stone  act  of  1878, 
which  might  well  have  been  called  the  "dust 
and  ashes  act,"  any  citizen  of  the  United  States 
could  take  up  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  of 
timber  land,  and  by  paying  two  dollars  and  a 
half  an  acre  for  it  obtain  title.  There  was  some 
virtuous  effort  made  with  a  view  to  limit  the 
operations  of  the  act  by  requiring  that  the  pur 
chaser  should  make  affidavit  that  he  was  enter 
ing  the  land  exclusively  for  his  own  use,  and  by 
not  allowing  any  association  to  enter  more  than 
one  hundred  and  sixty  acres.  Nevertheless, 
under  this  act  wealthy  corporations  have  frau 
dulently  obtained  title  to  from  ten  thousand  to 
twenty  thousand  acres  or  more.  The  plan  was 
usually  as  follows :  A  mill  company,  desirous  of 
getting  title  to  a  large  body  of  redwood  or  sugar- 
pine  land,  first  blurred  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the 
land  agents,  and  then  hired  men  to  enter  the 
land  they  wanted,  and  immediately  deed  it  to 
the  company  after  a  nominal  compliance  with 
the  law;  false  swearing  in  the  wilderness  against 
the  Government  being  held  of  no  account.  In 
one  case  which  came  under  the  observation  of 
Mr.  Bowers,  it  was  the  practice  of  a  lumber 
company  to  hire  the  entire  crew  of  every  vessel 
which  might  happen  to  touch  at  any  port  in  the 
redwood  belt,  to  enter  one  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  each  and  immediately  deed  the  land  to 

374 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

the  company,  in  consideration  of  the  company's 
paying  all  expenses  and  giving  the  jolly  sailors 
fifty  dollars  apiece  for  their  trouble. 

By  such  methods  have  our  magnificent  red 
woods  and  much  of  the  sugar-pine  forests  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada  been  absorbed  by  foreign 
and  resident  capitalists.  Uncle  Sam  is  not  often 
called  a  fool  in  business  matters,  yet  he  has 
sold  millions  of  acres  of  timber  land  at  two  dol 
lars  and  a  half  an  acre  on  which  a  single  tree 
was  worth  more  than  a  hundred  dollars.  But 
this  priceless  land  has  been  patented,  and 
nothing  can  be  done  now  about  the  crazy  bar 
gain.  According  to  the  everlasting  law  of  right 
eousness,  even  the  fraudulent  buyers  at  less 
than  one  per  cent  of  its  value  are  making  little 
or  nothing,  on  account  of  fierce  competition. 
The  trees  are  felled,  and  about  half  of  each 
giant  is  left  on  the  ground  to  be  converted  into 
smoke  and  ashes;  the  better  half  is  sawed  into 
choice  lumber  and  sold  to  citizens  of  the  United 
States  or  to  foreigners :  thus  robbing  the  coun 
try  of  its  glory  and  impoverishing  it  without 
right  benefit  to  anybody,  —  a  bad,  black  busi 
ness  from  beginning  to  end.  ^ 

The  redwood  is  one  of  the  few  conifers  that 
sprout  from  the  stump  and  roots,  and  it  declares 
itself  willing  to  begin  immediately  to  repair  the 
damage  of  the  lumberman  and  also  that  of  the 

375 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

forest-burner.  As  soon  as  a  redwood  is  cut 
down  or  burned  it  sends  up  a  crowd  of  eager, 
hopeful  shoots,  which,  if  allowed  to  grow,  would 
in  a  few  decades  attain  a  height  of  a  hundred 
feet,  and  the  strongest  of  them  would  finally 
become  giants  as  great  as  the  original  tree. 
Gigantic  second  and  third  growth  trees  are 
found  in  the  redwoods,  forming  magnificent 
temple-like  circles  around  charred  ruins  more 
than  a  thousand  years  old.  But  not  one  de 
nuded  acre  in  a  hundred  is  allowed  to  raise  a 
new  forest  growth.  On  the  contrary,  all  the 
brains,  religion,  and  superstition  of  the  neigh 
borhood  are  brought  into  play  to  prevent  a  new 
growth.  The  sprouts  from  the  roots  and  stumps 
are  cut  off  again  and  again,  with  zealous  con 
cern  as  to  the  best  time  and  method  of  making 
death  sure.  In  the  clearings  of  one  of  the  largest 
mills  on  the  coast  we  found  thirty  men  at  work, 
last  summer,  cutting  off  redwood  shoots  "in 
the  dark  of  the  moon,"  claiming  that  all  the 
stumps  and  roots  cleared  at  this  auspicious 
time  would  send  up  no  more  shoots.  Anyhow, 
these  vigorous,  almost  immortal  trees  are  killed 
at  last,  and  black  stumps  are  now  their  only 
monuments  over  most  of  the  chopped  and 
burned  areas. 

The  redwrood  is  the  glory  of  the  Coast  Range. 
It  extends  along  the  western  slope,  in  a  nearly 
376 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

continuous  belt  about  ten  miles  wide,  from  be 
yond  the  Oregon  boundary  to  the  south  of 
Santa  Cruz,  a  distance  of  nearly  four  hundred 
miles,  and  in  massive,  sustained  grandeur  and 
closeness  of  growth  surpasses  all  the  other  tim 
ber  woods  of  the  world.  Trees  from  ten  to  fif 
teen  feet  in  diameter  and  three  hundred  feet 
high  are  not  uncommon,  and  a  few  attain  a 
height  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  or  even 
four  hundred,  with  a  diameter  at  the  base  of 
fifteen  to  twenty  feet  or  more,  while  the  ground 
beneath  them  is  a  garden  of  fresh,  exuberant 
ferns,  lilies,  gaultheria,  and  rhododendron. 
This  grand  tree,  Sequoia  sempervirens,  is  sur 
passed  in  size  only  by  its  near  relative,  Sequoia 
gigantea,  or  Big  Tree,  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  if, 
indeed,  it  is  surpassed.  The  sempervirens  is 
certainly  the  taller  of  the  two.  The  gigantea 
attains  a  greater  girth,  and  is  heavier,  more 
noble  in  port,  and  more  sublimely  beautiful. 
These  two  sequoias  are  all  that  are  known  to 
exist  in  the  world,  though  in  former  geolog 
ical  times  the  genus  was  common  and  had 
many  species.  The  redwood  is  restricted  to 
the  Coast  Range,  and  the  Big  Tree  to  the 
Sierra. 

As  timber  the  redwood  is  too  good  to  live. 
The  largest  sawmills  ever  built  are  busy  along 
its  seaward  border,  "with  all  the  modern  im- 

377 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

provements,"  but  so  immense  is  the  yield  per 
acre  it  will  be  long  ere  the  supply  is  exhausted. 
The  Big  Tree  is  also,  to  some  extent,  being 
made  into  lumber.  It  is  far  less  abundant  than 
the  redwood,  and  is,  fortunately,  less  accessi 
ble,  extending  along  the  western  flank  of  the 
Sierra  in  a  partially  interrupted  belt,  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  long,  at  a  height  of 
from  four  to  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
The  enormous  logs,  too  heavy  to  handle,  are 
blasted  into  manageable  dimensions  with  gun 
powder.  A  large  portion  of  the  best  timber  is 
thus  shattered  and  destroyed,  and,  with  the 
huge,  knotty  tops,  is  left  in  rums  for  tremen 
dous  fires  that  kill  every  tree  within  their 
range,  great  and  small.  Still,  the  species  is  not 
in  danger  of  extinction.  It  has  been  planted 
and  is  flourishing  over  a  great  part  of  Europe, 
and  magnificent  sections  of  the  aboriginal  for 
ests  have  been  reserved  as  national  and  state 
parks,  —  the  Mariposa  Sequoia  Grove,  near 
Yosemite,  managed  by  the  State  of  California, 
and  the  General  Grant  and  Sequoia  National 
Parks  on  the  Kings,  Kaweah,  and  Tule  rivers, 
efficiently  guarded  by  a  small  troop  of  United 
States  cavalry  under  the  direction  of  the  Secre 
tary  of  the  Interior.  But  there  is  not  a  single 
specimen  of  the  redwood  in  aiiy  national  park. 
Only  by  gift  or  purchase,  so  far  as  I  know,  can 

378 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

the  Government  get  back  into  its  possession  a 
single  acre  of  this  wonderful  forest. 

The  legitimate  demands  on  the  forests  that 
have  passed  into  private  ownership,  as  well  as 
those  in  the  hands  of  the  Government,  are  in 
creasing  every  year  with  the  rapid  settlement 
and  upbuilding  of  the  country,  but  the  methods 
of  lumbering  are  as  yet  grossly  wasteful.  In 
most  mills  only  the  best  portions  of  the  best 
trees  are  used,  while  the  ruins  are  left  on  the 
ground  to  feed  great  fires,  which  kill  much  of 
what  is  left  of  the  less  desirable  timber,  together 
with  the  seedlings,  on  which  the  permanence 
of  the  forest  depends.  Thus  every  mill  is  a 
center  of  destruction  far  more  severe  from 
waste  and  fire  than  from  use.  The  same  thing  is 
true  of  the  mines,  which  consume  and  destroy 
indirectly  immense  quantities  of  timber  with 
their  innumerable  fires,  accidental  or  set  to 
make  open  ways,  and  often  without  regard  to 
how  far  they  run.  The  prospector  deliberately 
sets  fires  to  clear  off  the  woods  just  where  they 
are  densest,  to  lay  the  rocks  bare  and  make  the 
discovery  of  mines  easier.  Sheep-owners  and 
their  shepherds  also  set  fires  everywhere 
through  the  woods  in  the  fall  to  facilitate  the 
march  of  their  countless  flocks  the  next  sum 
mer,  and  perhaps  in  some  places  to  improve  the 
pasturage.  The  axe  is  not  yet  at  the  root  of 
379 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

every  tree,  but  the  sheep  is,  or  was  before  the 
national  parks  were  established  and  guarded 
by  the  military,  the  only  effective  and  reliable 
arm  of  the  Government  free  from  the  blight  of 
politics.  Not  only  do  the  shepherds,  at  the 
driest  time  of  the  year,  set  fire  to  everything 
that  will  burn,  but  the  sheep  consume  every 
green  leaf,  not  sparing  even  the  young  conifers, 
when  they  are  in  a  starving  condition  from 
crowding,  and  they  rake  and  dibble  the  loose 
soil  of  the  mountain  sides  for  the  spring  floods 
to  wash  away,  and  thus  at  last  leave  the  ground 
barren. 

Of  all  the  destroyers  that  infest  the  woods, 
the  shake-maker  seems  the  happiest.  Twenty 
or  thirty  years  ago,  shakes,  a  kind  of  long, 
board-like  shingles  split  with  a  mallet  and  a 
frow,  were  in  great  demand  for  covering  barns 
and  sheds,  and  many  are  used  still  in  prefer 
ence  to  common  shingles,  especially  those  made 
from  the  sugar-pine,  which  do  not  warp  or 
crack  hi  the  hottest  sunshine.  Drifting  adven 
turers  in  California,  after  harvest  and  thresh 
ing  are  over,  oftentimes  meet  to  discuss  their 
plans  for  the  winter,  and  their  talk  is  interest 
ing.  Once,  in  a  company  of  this  kind,  I  heard 
a  man  say,  as  he  peacefully  smoked  his  pipe : 
"Boys,  as  soon  as  this  job's  done  I'm  goin' 
into  the  duck  business.  There's  big  money  in 
380 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

it,  and  your  grub  costs  nothing.  Tule  Joe  made 
five  hundred  dollars  last  winter  on  mallard  and 
teal.  Shot  'em  on  the  Joaquin,  tied  'em  in  doz 
ens  by  the  neck,  and  shipped  'em  to  Sant 
Francisco.  And  when  he  was  tired  wading  in 
the  sloughs  and  touched  with  rheumatiz,  he 
just  knocked  off  on  ducks,  and  went  to  the 
Contra  Costa  hills  for  dove  and  quail.  It's  a 
mighty  good  business,  and  you're  your  own 
boss,  and  the  whole  thing 's  fun." 

Another  of  the  company,  a  bushy-bearded 
fellow,  with  a  trace  of  brag  in  his  voice,  drawled 
out:  "Bird  business  is  well  enough  for  some, 
but  bear  is  my  game,  with  a  deer  and  a  Cali 
fornia  lion  thrown  in  now  and  then  for  change. 
There's  always  market  for  bear  grease,  and 
sometimes  you  can  sell  the  hams.  They're 
good  as  hog  hams  any  day.  And  you  are  your 
own  boss  in  my  business,  too,  if  the  bears  ain't 
too  big  and  too  many  for  you.  Old  grizzlies  I 
despise,  —  they  want  cannon  to  kill  'em;  but 
the  blacks  and  browns  are  beauties  for  grease, 
and  when  once  I  get  'em  just  right,  and  draw  a 
bead  on  'em,  I  fetch  'em  every  tune."  Another 
said  he  was  going  to  catch  up  a  lot  of  mustangs 
as  soon  as  the  rains  set  in,  hitch  them  to  a  gang- 
plough,  and  go  to  farming  on  the  San  Joaquin 
plains  for  wheat.  But  most  preferred  the  shake 
business,  until  something  more  profitable  and 
381 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

as  sure  could  be  found,  with  equal  comfort  and 
independence. 

With  a  cheap  mustang  or  mule  to  carry  a 
pair  of  blankets,  a  sack  of  flour,  a  few  pounds  of 
coffee,  and  an  axe,  a  frow,  and  a  cross-cut  saw, 
the  shake-maker  ascends  the  mountains  to  the 
pine  belt  where  it  is  most  accessible,  usually 
by  some  mine  or  mill  road.  Then  he  strikes  off 
into  the  virgin  woods,  where  the  sugar  pine, 
king  of  all  the  hundred  species  of  pines  in  the 
world  in  size  and  beauty,  towers  on  the  open 
sunny  slopes  of  the  Sierra  in  the  fullness  of  its 
glory.  Selecting  a  favorable  spot  for  a  cabin 
near  a  meadow  with  a  stream,  he  unpacks  his 
animal  and  stakes  it  out  on  the  meadow.  Then 
he  chops  into  one  after  another  of  the  pines, 
until  he  finds  one  that  he  feels  sure  will  split 
freely,  cuts  this  down,  saws  off  a  section  four 
feet  long,  splits  it,  and  from  this  first  cut,  per 
haps  seven  feet  in  diameter,  he  gets  shakes 
enough  for  a  cabin  and  its  furniture,  —  walls, 
roof,  door,  bedstead,  table,  and  stool.  Besides 
his  labor,  only  a  few  pounds  of  nails  are  re 
quired.  Sapling  poles  form  the  frame  of  the 
airy  building,  usually  about  six  feet  by  eight  in 
size,  on  which  the  shakes  are  nailed,  with  the 
edges  overlapping.  A  few  bolts  from  the  same 
section  that  the  shakes  were  made  from  are 
split  into  square  sticks  and  built  up  to  form  a 

382 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

chimney,  the  inside  and  interspaces  being  plas 
tered  and  filled  in  with  mud.  Thus,  with  abun 
dance  of  fuel,  shelter  and  comfort  by  his  own 
fireside  are  secured.  Then  he  goes  to  work  saw 
ing  and  splitting  for  the  market,  tying  the 
shakes  in  bundles  of  fifty  or  a  hundred.  They 
are  four  feet  long,  four  niches  wide,  and  about 
one  fourth  of  an  inch  thick.  The  first  few  thou 
sands  he  sells  or  trades  at  the  nearest  mill  or 
store,  getting  provisions  in  exchange.  Then  he 
advertises,  in  whatever  way  he  can,  that  he 
has  excellent  sugar-pine  shakes  for  sale,  easy 
of  access  and  cheap. 

Only  the  lower,  perfectly  clear,  free-splitting 
portions  of  the  giant  pines  are  used,  —  perhaps 
ten  to  twenty  feet  from  a  tree  two  hundred  and 
fifty  in  height;  all  the  rest  is  left  a  mass  of  ruins, 
to  rot  or  to  feed  the  forest  fires,  while  thousands 
are  hacked  deeply  and  rejected  in  proving 
the  grain.  Over  nearly  all  of  the  more  acces 
sible  slopes  of  the  Sierra  and  Cascade  moun 
tains  in  southern  Oregon,  at  a  height  of  from 
three  to  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and  for 
a  distance  of  about  six  hundred  miles,  this 
waste  and  confusion  extends.  Happy  robbers! 
dwelling  in  the  most  beautiful  woods,  in  the 
most  salubrious  climate,  breathing  delightful 
odors  both  day  and  night,  drinking  cool  living 
water,  —  roses  and  lilies  at  their  feet  in  the 

383 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

spring,  shedding  fragrance  and  ringing  bells  as 
if  cheering  them  on  in  their  desolating  work. 
There  is  none  to  say  them  nay.  They  buy  no 
land,  pay  no  taxes,  dwell  in  a  paradise  with  no 
forbidding  angel  either  from  Washington  or 
from  heaven.  Every  one  of  the  frail  shake 
shanties  is  a  center  of  destruction,  and  the 
extent  of  the  ravages  wrought  in  this  quiet  way 
is  in  the  aggregate  enormous. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that,  notwith 
standing  the  immense  quantities  of  timber  cut 
every  year  for  foreign  and  home  markets  and 
mines,  from  five  to  ten  tunes  as  much  is  de 
stroyed  as  is  used,  chiefly  by  running  forest  fires 
that  only  the  Federal  Government  can  stop. 
Travelers  through  the  West  in  summer  are  not 
likely  to  forget  the  firework  displayed  along 
the  various  railway  tracks.  Thoreau,  when 
contemplating  the  destruction  of  the  forests  on 
the  east  side  of  the  continent,  said  that  soon 
the  country  would  be  so  bald  that  every  man 
would  have  to  grow  whiskers  to  hide  its  naked 
ness,  but  he  thanked  God  that  at  least  the  sky 
was  safe.  Had  he  gone  West  he  would  have 
found  out  that  the  sky  was  not  safe;  for  all 
through  the  summer  months,  over  most  of  the 
mountain  regions,  the  smoke  of  mill  and  forest 
fires  is  so  thick  and  black  that  no  sunbeam  can 
pierce  it.  The  whole  sky,  with  clouds,  sun, 

384 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

moon,  and  stars,  is  simply  blotted  out.  There 
is  no  real  sky  and  no  scenery.  Not  a  mountain 
is  left  in  the  landscape.  At  least  none  is  in  sight 
from  the  lowlands,  and  they  all  might  as  well 
be  on  the  moon,  as  far  as  scenery  is  concerned. 
The  half-dozen  transcontinental  railroad 
companies  advertise  the  beauties  of  their  lines 
in  gorgeous  many-colored  folders,  each  claim 
ing  its  as  the  "scenic  route."  "The  route  of 
superior  desolation"  —  the  smoke,  dust,  and 
ashes  route  —  would  be  a  more  truthful  de 
scription.  Every  train  rolls  on  through  dismal 
smoke  and  barbarous,  melancholy  ruins;  and 
the  companies  might  well  cry  in  their  adver 
tisements  :  "Come !  travel  our  way.  Ours  is  the 
blackest.  It  is  the  only  genuine  Erebus  route. 
The  sky  is  black  and  the  ground  is  black,  and 
on  either  side  there  is  a  continuous  border  of 
black  stumps  and  logs  and  blasted  trees  appeal 
ing  to  heaven  for  help  as  if  still  half  alive,  and 
their  mute  eloquence  is  most  interestingly 
touching.  The  blackness  is  perfect.  On  account 
of  the  superior  skill  of  our  workmen,  advan 
tages  of  climate,  and  the  kind  of  trees,  the 
charring  is  generally  deeper  along  our  line,  and 
the  ashes  are  deeper,  and  the  confusion  and 
desolation  displayed  can  never  be  rivaled.  No 
other  route  on  this  continent  so  fully  illustrates 
the  abomination  of  desolation."  Such  a  claim 

385 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

would  be  reasonable,  as  each  seems  the  worst, 
whatever  route  you  chance  to  take. 

Of  course  a  way  had  to  be  cleared  through 
the  woods.  But  the  felled  timber  is  not  worked 
up  into  firewood  for  the  engines  and  into  lum 
ber  for  the  company's  use;  it  is  left  lying  in  vul 
gar  confusion,  and  is  fired  from  time  to  time  by 
sparks  from  locomotives  or  by  the  workmen 
camping  along  the  line.  The  fires,  whether 
accidental  or  set,  are  allowed  to  run  into  the 
woods  as  far  as  they  may,  thus  assuring  com 
prehensive  destruction.  The  directors  of  a  line 
that  guarded  against  fires,  and  cleared  a  clean 
gap  edged  with  living  trees,  and  fringed  and 
mantled  with  the  grass  and  flowers  and  beauti 
ful  seedlings  that  are  ever  ready  and  willing  to 
spring  up,  might  justly  boast  of  the  beauty  of 
their  road;  for  nature  is  always  ready  to  heal 
every  scar.  But  there  is  no  such  road  on  the 
western  side  of  the  continent.  Last  summer,  in 
the-  Rocky  Mountains,  I  saw  six  fires  started 
by  sparks  from  a  locomotive  within  a  distance 
of  three  miles,  and  nobody  was  in  sight  to  pre 
vent  them  from  spreading.  They  might  run 
into  the  adjacent  forests  and  burn  the  timber 
from  hundreds  of  square  miles;  not  a  man  in 
the  State  would  care  to  spend  an  hour  in  fight 
ing  them,  as  long  as  his  own  fences  and  build 
ings  were  not  threatened. 
386 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

Notwithstanding  all  the  waste  and  use  which 
have  been  going  on  unchecked  like  a  storm  for 
more  than  two  centuries,  it  is  not  yet  too  late 
—  though  it  is  high  time  —  for  the  Government 
to  begin  a  rational  administration  of  its  forests. 
About  seventy  million  acres  it  still  owns,  — 
enough  for  all  the  country,  if  wrisely  used.  These 
residual  forests  are  generally  on  mountain 
slopes,  just  where  they  are  doing  the  most  good, 
and  where  their  removal  would  be  followed  by 
the  greatest  number  of  evils;  the  lands  they 
cover  are  too  rocky  and  high  for  agriculture, 
and  can  never  be  made  as  valuable  for  any 
other  crop  as  for  the  present  crop  of  trees.  It 
has  been  shown  over  and  over  again  that  if 
these  mountains  were  to  be  stripped  of  their 
trees  and  underbrush,  and  kept  bare  and  sod- 
less  by  hordes  of  sheep  and  the  innumerable 
fires  the  shepherds  set,  besides  those  of  the 
millmen,  prospectors,  shake-makers,  and  all 
sorts  of  adventurers,  both  lowlands  and  moun 
tains  would  speedily  become  little  better  than 
deserts,  compared  with  their  present  beneficent 
fertility.  During  heavy  rainfalls  and  while  the 
winter  accumulations  of  snow  were  melting, 
the  larger  streams  would  swell  into  destructive 
torrents,  cutting  deep,  rugged-edged  gullies, 
carrying  away  the  fertile  humus  and  soil  as  well 
as  sand  and  rocks,  filling  up  and  overflowing 

387 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

their  lower  channels,  and  covering  the  lowland 
fields  with  raw  detritus.  Drought  and  barren 
ness  would  follow. 

In  their  natural  condition,  or  under  wise  man 
agement,  keeping  out  destructive  sheep,  pre 
venting  fires,  selecting  the  trees  that  should  be 
cut  for  lumber,  and  preserving  the  young  ones 
and  the  shrubs  and  sod  of  herbaceous  vegeta 
tion,  these  forests  would  be  a  never  failing 
fountain  of  wealth  and  beauty.  The  cool  shades 
of  the  forest  give  rise  to  moist  beds  and  currents 
of  air,  and  the  sod  of  grasses  and  the  various 
flowering  plants  and  shrubs  thus  fostered,  to 
gether  with  the  network  and  sponge  of  tree 
roots,  absorb  and  hold  back  the  rain  and  the 
waters  from  melting  snow,  compelling  them  to 
ooze  and  percolate  and  flow  gently  through  the 
soil  in  streams  that  never  dry.  All  the  pine 
needles  and  rootlets  and  blades  of  grass,  and 
the  fallen,  decaying  trunks  of  trees,  are  dams, 
storing  the  bounty  of  the  clouds  and  dispensing 
it  in  perennial  life-giving  streams,  instead  of 
allowing  it  to  gather  suddenly  and  rush  head 
long  in  short-lived  devastating  floods.  Every 
body  on  the  dry  side  of  the  continent  is  begin 
ning  to  find  this  out,  and,  in  view  of  the  waste 
going  on,  is  growing  more  and  more  anxious 
for  government  protection.  The  outcries  we 
hear  against  forest  reservations  come  mostly 

388 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

from  thieves  who  are  wealthy  and  steal  timber 
by  wholesale.  They  have  so  long  been  allowed  to 
steal  and  destroy  in  peace  that  any  impediment 
to  forest  robbery  is  denounced  as  a  cruel  and 
irreligious  interference  with  "vested  rights/' 
likely  to  endanger  the  repose  of  all  ungodly 
welfare. 

Gold,  gold,  gold!  How  strong  a  voice  that 
metal  has! 

"  O  wae  for  the  siller,  it  is  sae  preva'lin'!  " 

Even  in  Congress  a  sizable  chunk  of  gold, 
carefully  concealed,  will  outtalk  and  outfight 
all  the  nation  on  a  subject  like  forestry,  well 
smothered  in  ignorance,  and  in  which  the 
money  interests  of  only  a  few  are  conspicuously 
involved.  Under  these  circumstances,  the 
bawling,  blethering  oratorical  stuff  drowns  the 
voice  of  God  himself.  Yet  the  dawn  of  a  new 
day  in  forestry  is  breaking.  Honest  citizens  see 
that  only  the  rights  of  the  Government  are  be 
ing  trampled,  not  those  of  the  settlers.  Only 
what  belongs  to  all  alike  is  reserved,  and  every 
acre  that  is  left  should  be  held  together  under 
the  Federal  Government  as  a  basis  for  a  general 
policy  of  administration  for  the  public  good. 
The  people  will  not  always  be  deceived  by  self 
ish  opposition,  whether  from  lumber  and  min 
ing  corporations  or  from  sheepmen  and  pro- 

389 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

specters,  however  cunningly  brought  forward 
underneath  fables  and  gold. 

Emerson  says  that  things  refuse  to  be  mis 
managed  long.  An  exception  would  seem  to  be 
found  in  the  case  of  our  forests,  which  have 
been  mismanaged  rather  long,  and  now  come 
desperately  near  being  like  smashed  eggs  and 
spilt  milk.  Still,  in  the  long  run  the  world  does 
not  move  backward.  The  wonderful  advance 
made  in  the  last  few  years,  in  creating  four 
national  parks  in  the  West,  and  thirty  forest 
reservations,  embracing  nearly  forty  million 
acres;  and  in  the  planting  of  the  borders  of 
streets  and  highways  and  spacious  parks  in  all 
the  great  cities,  to  satisfy  the  natural  taste  and 
hunger  for  landscape  beauty  and  righteousness 
that  God  has  put,  in  some  measure,  into  every 
human  being  and  animal,  shows  the  trend  of 
awakening  public  opinion.  The  making  of  the 
far-famed  New  York  Central  Park  was  opposed 
by  even  good  men,  with  misguided  pluck,  per 
severance,  and  ingenuity;  but  straight  right 
won  its  way,  and  now  that  park  is  appreciated. 
So  we  confidently  believe  it  will  be  with  our 
great  national  parks  and  forest  reservations. 
There  will  be  a  period  of  indifference  on  the 
part  of  the  rich,  sleepy  with  wealth,  and  of  the 
toiling  millions,  sleepy  with  poverty,  most  of 
whom  never  saw  a  forest ;  a  period  of  scream- 

390 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

ing  protest  and  objection  from  the  plunderers, 
who  are  as  unconscionable  and  enterprising  as 
Satan.  But  light  is  surely  coming,  and  the 
friends  of  destruction  will  preach  and  bewail  in 
vain. 

The  United  States  Government  has  always 
been  proud  of  the  welcome  it  has  extended  to 
good  men  of  every  nation,  seeking  freedom  and 
homes  and  bread.  Let  them  be  welcomed  still 
as  nature  welcomes  them,  to  the  woods  as  well 
as  to  the  prairies  and  plains.  No  place  is  too 
good  for  good  men,  and  still  there  is  room. 
They  are  invited  to  heaven,  and  may  well  be 
allowed  in  America.  Every  place  is  made  better 
by  them.  Let  them  be  as  free  to  pick  gold  and 
gems  from  the  hills,  to  cut  and  hew,  dig  and 
plant,  for  homes  and  bread,  as  the  birds  are  to 
pick  berries  from  the  wild  bushes,  and  moss  and 
leaves  for  nests.  The  ground  will  be  glad  to 
feed  them,  and  the  pines  will  come  down  from 
the  mountains  for  their  homes  as  willingly  as 
the  cedars  came  from  Lebanon  for  Solomon's 
temple.  Nor  will  the  woods  be  the  worse  for 
this  use,  or  their  benign  influences  be  dimin 
ished  any  more  than  the  sun  is  diminished  by 
shining.  Mere  destroyers,  however,  tree-killers, 
wool  and  mutton  men,  spreading  death  and 
confusion  in  the  fairest  groves  and  gardens 
ever  planted,  —  let  the  Government  hasten  to 

391 


OUR  NATIONAL  PARKS 

cast  them  out  and  make  an  end  of  them.  For  it 
must  be  told  again  and  again,  and  be  burningly 
borne  in  mind,  that  just  now,  while  protective 
measures  are  being  deliberated  languidly,  de 
struction  and  use  are  speeding  on  faster  and 
farther  every  day.  The  axe  and  saw  are  in 
sanely  busy,  chips  are  flying  thick  as  snow- 
flakes,  and  every  summer  thousands  of  acres 
of  priceless  forests,  with  their  underbrush,  soil, 
springs,  climate,  scenery,  and  religion,  are  van 
ishing  away  in  clouds  of  smoke,  while,  except 
in  the  national  parks,  not  one  forest  guard  is 
employed. 

All  sorts  of  local  laws  and  regulations  have 
been  tried  and  found  wanting,  and  the  costly 
lessons  of  our  own  experience,  as  well  as  that  of 
every  civilized  nation,  show  conclusively  that 
the  fate  of  the  remnant  of  our  forests  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  Federal  Government,  and  that  if 
the  remnant  is  to  be  saved  at  all,  it  must  be 
saved  quickly. 

Any  fool  can  destroy  trees.  They  cannot  run 
away;  and  if  they  could,  they  would  still  be 
destroyed,  —  chased  and  hunted  down  as  long 
as  fun  or  a  dollar  could  be  got  out  of  their  bark 
hides,  branching  horns,  or  magnificent  bole 
backbones.  Few  that  fell  trees  plant  them;  nor 
would  planting  avail  much  towards  getting 
back  anything  like  the  noble  primeval  forests. 

392 


THE  AMERICAN  FORESTS 

During  a  man's  life  only  saplings  can  be  grown, 
in  the  place  of  the  old  trees  —  tens  of  centuries 
old  —  that  have  been  destroyed.  It  took  more 
than  three  thousand  years  to  make  some  of  the 
trees  in  these  Western  woods,  —  trees  that  are 
still  standing  in  perfect  strength  and  beauty, 
waving  and  singing  in  the  mighty  forests  of  the 
Sierra.  Through  all  the  wonderful,  eventful 
centuries  since  Christ's  time  —  and  long  before 
that  —  God  has  cared  for  these  trees,  saved 
them  from  drought,  disease,  avalanches,  and 
a  thousand  straining,  leveling  tempests  and 
floods ;  but  he  cannot  save  them  from  fools,  — 
only  Uncle  Sam  can  do  that. 


THE   END 


MAI'  SHOWING 

NATIONAL  PARKS,  MONUMENTS 
AND  FOREST  RESERVES 

IX  WESTERN  UNITED  STATES 
To  Auput  15.  1916. 
SCALE  Or  MILES 


INDEX 


Adenostema  fasciculatum, 
heathlike  shrub,  its  influ 
ence  on  the  physiognomy  of 
Sierra  landscapes,  156,  157. 

Age  of  trees,  pine,  76,  114, 
118,  119,  125,  297,  298; 
libocedrus,  128;  juniper, 
135,  136;  fir,  297,  298; 
sequoia,  282,  297-303,  321, 
322. 

Alaska,  plants  and  animals  of, 
9-14. 

Alpenglow,  83. 

Apple,  wild,  26,  27. 

Aspen,  144. 

Aster,  180. 

Avalanches,  snow,  31,  272- 
77;  rock,  154,281,282. 

Axe  clearings,  111. 

Aialea,  161,  305,  327. 

Bear-hunters,  381;    Duncan, 

195;  David  Brown  and  his 

dog  Sandy,  198,  199. 
Bears,  32,  58,  63,  64, 159,  340; 

food  of  Sierra,    188,    189; 

interviews    with,     190-94; 

tracks,  195;  and  sheep,  201- 

05. 

Beaver,  20,  28,  60. 
Beaver,  mountain,  219. 
Beaver  meadows,  27,  42. 
Birds,  of  the  Yosemite  Park, 

232. 
Blackberries,  28. 


Bogs,  153,  182. 
Brodiaea,  27,  171. 
Brown,David,  famous  hunter, 

197-201. 
Bryanthus,  162,  163. 

California,  floweriness  of,  151. 

Calochortus,  27,  170,  171. 

Calypso  borealis,  9,  27. 

Camassia,  171. 

Campanula,  305. 

Camping,  63,  146,  177,  179. 

Canon,  the  Grand,  of  the  Col 
orado,  40;  Yellowstone,  55; 
Merced,  280;  Tuolumne, 
280. 

Canons  of  the  Sierra,  91. 

Cassiope,  162. 

Cathedral  Peak,  99. 

Ceanothus,  160. 

Cedar,  incense,  128;  red,  135- 
37,  295. 

Chamoebatia  foliolosa,  a  for 
est  carpet,  157,  158. 

Chaparral,  156, 157, 159, 160. 

Cherry,  27,  160. 

Chestnut,  26. 

Chinquapin,  161. 

Chipmunk,  214-17. 

Climates  of  the  Sierra,  151, 
152,  176,  177,  179. 

Clintonia,  22,  27. 

Clouds,  85,  181,  299,  304. 

Colds,  146. 

Coyote,  211. 


395 


INDEX 


Crow,  Clarke,  248.    . 
Crystals,  177. 
Currants,  28. 
Cypripedium,  171. 

Daisy,  103,  163. 

Danger,  32,  63,  64,  146,  200, 

226. 

Deer,  206,  341. 
Deserts,  8. 
De  Soto,  78,  79. 
Diver,  great  northern,  247. 
Dog,  Carlo,  191;  Sandy,  198. 
Dogwood,  flowering,  26,  143. 
Douglas,  David,  in  forests  of 

Oregon,  121. 
Duck-hunters,  380,  381. 
Ducks,  245,  246. 
Duncan,  famous  bear-killer, 

195-97. 
Dwarf  willow,  103. 

Eagle,  248. 

Earthquake,  283,  284;  an 
cient,  154,  288;  taluses,  for 
mation  of,  282,  283;  influ 
ence  on  canon  scenery,  288, 
289. 

Emerson,  his  visit  to  Yosem- 
ite  and  the  Mariposa  Grove 
of  Big  Trees,  144-50,  255, 
256. 

Eriogonum,  163,  182. 

Erythronium,  27,  35. 

Farm  lands  of  Washington 
and  Oregon,  28,  29. 

Ferns,  164, 175;  Woodwardia, 
164;  Pteris,  164;  Pellaea, 
five  species  of,  165,  166; 
Cryptogramme,  166;  Phe- 
gopteris,  166;  Cheilanthes, 


three  species  of,  166,  167; 
Adiantum,  two  species, 
167,  168. 

Fir.    See  Silver  fir. 

Floods,  278. 

Floral  cascades,  174,  175. 

Flower  beds  of  the  Sierra, 
156. 

Flowers,  of  pine,  spruce,  fir, 
and  hemlock,  184—86;  se 
quoia,  308. 

Forest  fires,  321,  331,  332, 
361,  379,  384-86. 

Forest  picture,  327. 

Forest  Reservations,  Rocky 
Mountain,  18;  Pacific 
Coast,  22,  23,  35,  38;  oppo 
sition  to,  28,  388,  389; 
wildness  of,  28. 

Forest  Reserve,  Black  Hills, 
16;  Bitter  Root,  18,  19; 
Flathead,  21;  Sierra,  36, 
38;  Grand  Canon,  39-^1. 

Forest  sepulchres,  71. 

Forests,  growing  interest  in, 
3,  4,  38;  of  the  Cascade 
Mountains,  25,  26;  fossil, 
67;  of  the  Yellowstone 
Park,  75;  Sierra,  88,  89, 
108-50;  Giant,  of  the  Ka- 
weah,  324;  of  the  Tule 
River,  343;  American,  357; 
destruction  of,  362-71;  in 
fluence  on  streams,  363, 
373,  387;  management  of, 
363-93;  redwood  (Sequoia 
sempervirens),  374-79. 

Fountains  of  the  Sierra,  262, 
266. 

Fritillaria,  27,  171. 

Frogs,  229. 

Frost  crystals,  181. 


396 


INDEX 


Gardens,  wild,  of  California, 
7;  the  East,  8;  Alaska,  9; 
Black  Hills,  16;  Rocky 
Mountains,  21,  22;  Cas 
cade  Mountains,  26,  27, 
35;  Sierra,  151-56;  forest, 
170;  cliff,  173,  174;  wall, 
174,  175;  pot-hole,  shadow, 
alpine,  175,  176;  winter, 
177;  meadow,  179;  sky, 
Mono,  and  tree,  184-86. 

Gaultheria,  27,  377. 

Geese,  244,  245. 

General  Grant  National  Park 
and  tree,  322. 

Gentians,  103,  156,  180. 

Geyser  basins,  48,  49. 

Geyser  craters,  52. 

Geysers,  43,  46-48,  59-61; 
distribution  of,  62. 

Giants  of  Sierra  forests,  119; 
Western,  128. 

Glacial  action,  92,  93,  101, 
106,  152. 

Glacial  and  post-glacial  de 
nudation,  92,  93,  98. 

Glacial  period,  72,  73,  87, 105, 
106,  263. 

Glacier  lakes,  86,  105. 

Glacier  landscapes,  73,  100, 

Glacier  meadows,  42,  179. 

Glacier  monuments,  92. 

Glacier  pavements,  91,  93- 
95. 

Glacier  sparrow,  251. 

Glaciers,  22,  34,  72,  86;  of  the 
Sierra,  105;  ancient  Tuo- 
lumne,  97,  99. 

Goat,  wild,  28,  33. 

Gold,  influence  of,  14,  389. 

Goldenrods,  20,  156,  180. 

Gray,  Asa,  37. 


Great  Basin,  the,  104. 
Grouse,  233-38. 

Hackmatack,  21. 

Hawks,  248. 

Hayden,  F.  V.,  his  work  ex 
ploring  the  Yellowstone  re 
gion,  and  getting  it  set  apart 
as  a  national  park,  44. 

Hazel,  27,  161. 

Hazel  Green,  89. 

Heathworts,  26,  156,  162. 

Hemlock,  mountain,  137, 138, 
187. 

Home-going,  108. 

Honeysuckle,  156,  162. 

Hooker,  Sir  Joseph,  37. 

Hothouses,  natural,  176. 

Hot  springs,  43, 46, 48,  49,  61. 

Huckleberries,  27. 

Hulsea,  183. 

Hunters  and  trappers,  58,  65. 

Indian  summer,  19,  181,  306, 
341. 

Indians,  28,  58,  286;  their  or 
chards,  115,  116;  hunting 
grounds,  17,  134,  210,  211; 
tame,  342,  343. 

Johnson,  Dr.,  on  the  trees  of 

Scotland,  118. 
Joliet  and  Father  Marquette 

on  the  upper  Mississippi, 

79. 
Juniper,   western,    135,    136, 

295. 

Lakes,  McDonald,  22;  Ava 
lanche,  22;  Yellowstone, 
53,  78;  Mono,  104;  Tahoe, 
53;  Tenaya,  95. 


397 


INDEX 


Landscapes,  new,  5;  changes 
in,  6;  of  the  Sierra,  95. 

Landslip,  311. 

Larch,  western,  21;  Lyall, 
21. 

Lark,  meadow,  259. 

La  Salle,  79. 

Lewis  and  Clark,  33. 

Library,  geological,  66. 

Light,  90,  181. 

Lightning,  298. 

Lilies,  26,  168,  169,  170,  377. 

Linncea  borealis  and  compan 
ions,  22,  56. 

Lizards,  222. 

Log  houses,  312,  329,  345. 

Loggers,  33. 

Lumbering  in  the  Sierra,  110. 

Man,  influence  on  landscapes, 
6. 

Manzanita,  158. 

Maple,  26,  143. 

Mariposa  tulip,  170. 

Marmot,  20,  211. 

Meadows,  glacier,  42,  179; 
in  sequoia  woods,  320,  326, 
327. 

Monardella,  305. 

Moneses,  22. 

Monument,  the  Glacier,  96. 

Mosses,  26. 

Mt.  Rainier,  34;  Amethyst, 
67,  81;  Washburn,  74; 
Dana,  99,  102;  Lyell,  Mc- 
Clure,  Gibbs,  99;  Hoffman, 
177. 

Mountaineering,  309,  330. 

Mountains,  the  Western,  4; 
new,  6;  Cascade,  22;  Olym 
pic,  22;  Rocky,  18-22,  42- 
44;  Sierra,  84. 


Mud,  49. 

Mule,  Brownie,  309,  319,  325, 

331,  345,  346;  his  prayer, 

343,  344. 

Names,  65. 

Nature,    63,    82,    106,    358; 

laboratories  of,  49. 
Night  air,  146,  147. 
Nights,  181. 
Nuts,  pine,  113. 

Oaks,  California  black,  140; 
gold-cup  live-oak,  140-42. 
Orchids,  26,  171. 
Ouzel,  water,  34,  58,  259. 
Owens  River  water,  267. 

Parks,  national,  of  the  West, 
15;  Mt.  Rainier,  34;  Yel 
lowstone,  42;  Yosemite,  84; 
animals  of,  188,  219;  birds, 
232;  General  Grant  and 
Sequoia,  322,  354,  355; 
management  of,  45,  378. 

Petrified  forests,  43,  67,  68. 

Phlox,  103,  178. 

Pika,  178,  220. 

Pine,  yellow,  16, 123-27;  con 
torted,  lodge-pole,  Murray, 
two-leaved,  tamarack,  18, 
21,  75,  77,  92,  133,  134; 
mountain,  22,  119;  Sabine, 
112,  113;  hard  cone  (atien- 
uata),  113-15;  dwarf,  117; 
sugar,  110,  119;  nut,  115, 
116;  white,  75,  116. 

Plover,  247. 

Plum,  27. 

Polemonium,  alpine,  183. 

Poplar,  143. 

Primrose,  shrubby,  162. 


398 


INDEX 


Prospectors,  312,  379. 
Pyrola,  22. 

Quail,  mountain,  239;  valley, 
242. 

Railroads  in  western  forests, 

385. 

Bain,  30. 
Raspberries,  28. 
Rat,  wood,  220. 
Rattlesnakes,  32,  64,  224. 
Redwood,  110,  290,  375-78. 
Reservations.       See     Forest 

Reservations. 

Rhododendron,  27,  161,  377. 
Ribes,  305. 
River,  the  Yellowstone,  54; 

Mississippi,  79;  Columbia, 

81 ;  Missouri,  81 ;  Colorado, 

81;   Tuolumne,    104,   280; 

Merced,     104,     280;     San 

Joaquin,  104. 
Rivers,  42;  Sierra,  263. 
Riverside  trees,  143. 
Robin,  256-58. 
Rock  ferns,  164. 
Rose,  26,  161,  305. 
Rubus,  161. 

Sage-cock,  233. 

Salmon  berries,  27. 

Sandhill  crane,  247. 

Sanger  Lumber  Co.,  322. 

Sarcodes,  304. 

Sawmills,  in  sequoia  woods, 

316,  322,  323,  345,  379. 
Scenery,    habit,    4,    5;   best, 

care-killing,  21;  canon,  281, 

288. 

Seed  collectors,  111. 
Seeds  of  conifers,  131,  132. 


Sequoia  ditches,  314,  315. 

Sequoia  gigantea,  290;  cones, 
296;  age,  298;  death,  298; 
groves  in  spring,  303,  304; 
summer,  305;  autumn,  306; 
winter,  306;  studies,  308; 
seedlings,  321 ;  young  trees, 
311,  320;  oldest,  321;  size 
of,  317,  318,  348;  durability 
of  wood,  314;  gum,  316; 
groves  of  Yosemite  Park, 
119;  Mariposa  Grove,  309, 
354;  Fresno  Grove,  311- 
16;  Dinky  Grove,  317;  for- 

.  ests  of  Kings  River,  319; 
Kaweah  and  Tule  river 
basins,  324,  339,  342;  dis 
tribution  of,  347-53;  per 
manence  of  the  species,  348; 
influence  on  streams,  349, 
350,  355. 

Shake-makers,  322,  380. 

Sheep,  wild,  211;  hoofed 
locusts,  16,  111,  343,  379, 
380. 

Shepherds,  38,  202,  317,  342. 

Sierra  climate,  change  of,  349, 
350. 

Silex  pavements,  52. 

Silver  fir,  alpine,  37,  75,  187; 
magnificent,  91,  129,  130; 
white,  noble,  grand,  and 
lovely,  131,  1£6. 

Snow,  30,  31,  268,  270,  271. 

Snow  avalanches,  272-77. 

Snow  plant  (Sarcodes),  171, 
172,  304. 

Snowstorms,  270,  306. 

Soil,  72, 73;  moraine,  110, 152; 
crystal,  154,  177;  earth 
quake  boulder,  155,  282. 

Sparrow,  the  glacier,  251. 


399 


INDEX 


Spiraea,  156. 

Spiritual  world,  the,  82. 

Springs,  266,  267;  soda,  269. 

Spruce,  Engelmann,  17,  75; 
Douglas,  23-25,  75,  110, 
127,  128;  Sitka,  187. 

Squirrels,  20,  58,  209,  210, 
212-17,  296,  297,  307,  308. 

Storms,  289. 

Streams  of  the  Sierra,  262, 
263,  266,  267,  269;  in 
spring,  277,  278;  in  summer 
and  autumn,  279,  280. 

Sunflowers,  crystal,  177. 

Swamps,  9. 

Talus,  earthquake,  154,  281- 
83. 

Tamarack,  21. 

Thoreau,  his  description  of 
the  pistillate  flowers  of  the 
white  pine,  185, 186;  on  the 
destruction  of  trees  and 
shrubs,  384. 

Torreya,  144. 

Tourists,  25,  31,  32,  58,  59. 

Trapper,  64. 

Travel,  modern,  1,  56,  57,  62. 


Tree   flowers,    184-87;   how 

best  to  see  them,  185. 
Tree  gardens,  184. 
Trout,  22,  54,  230,  231. 
Tumion,  144. 
Tundra,  Alaska,  9. 

Vaccinium,  22,  103,  163. 
Valley,  Central,  of  California, 

7,  151. 

Violets,  156,  304,  305. 
Volcanic  cones,  35,  104.  - 
Volcanic  rocks,  67. 
Volcanic  storms,  69. 
.Volcanoes,  34;  mud,  57. 

Water,  action  of,  on  soilbeds, 

152. 

Water,  Owens  River,  267. 
Waterfalls,  Yellowstone,  55; 

Kaweah,  324. 

Wildness,  3;  unchangeable,  7. 
Willow,  dwarf,  103. 
Wind,  action  of,  on  soilbeds, 

152,  153. 

Woodchuck,  217,  218. 
Woodpeckers,  253-56,  305. 
Wood-rat,  220. 


154 


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